Winter Rose
by AmicableAlien
Summary: 1874, St Petersburg: Violet, Countess of Grantham, came to the ancient city for duty but found there much more. A Violet/Igor Kuragin fanfiction. Not AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Winter Rose**

* * *

 _Respect was invented to cover the empty place where love should be._

\- Leo Tolstoy, _Anna Karenina_

* * *

 **London, 1873.**

"For God's sake, Violet!"

The words slashed against her back like a whip.

Violet Crawley did not flinch. Slowly, she replaced the hair-brush on her dresser. The silvered back connected with the inlaid wood. It clicked.

The noise broke his temper again.

"Is it too much to ask? That my wife, my _Countess_ should spend the night by my side?"

His heavy brows jutted in a dark line over his eyes. Eyes, she had once thought akin to mahogany in their rich, earthy colour. She forgot, in that moment of fancy, that mahogany was one of the hardest woods in the world.

"The Prince Royal will be present." Patrick Crawley continued. His voice rose in timbre. "His wife. The Duke and Duchess of Argyll. Sir William and Lady Bywell. Dammit, even Hepworth has dug that Yankee heiress of his out of the country. Is it a point with you to make me a laughing stock of our acquaintances?"

In the mirror Violet's lips tightened at the unfair blow. Experience, however, dictated that Patrick's accusations only grew worse when she retaliated. A man who ascended to the peerage at the tender age of fourteen, was not in the habit of tolerating the dissent of his subordinates.

Even if the subordinate in question was his wife and Countess of eight years standing.

She swallowed back hot words. The effort nearly made her wince. "I'm sorry, Patrick. I did not intend to upset you. It was merely-"

"Sorry?"

The Earl of Grantham flung out his hand. To her left, Violet heard a soft thump and the crunch of breaking glass as the delicate sherry glass landed on the Persian rug. She licked her lips.

"I am just a little tired, Patrick."

"Tired? For Christ's sake, Violet, this dinner is important."

"You say that for every dinner with the Prince. And besides-"

"Because every dinner with the Prince is important! Even you must be aware of his influence in the Foreign Office. They say Granville slips him despatches under the table every evening at Whites'." Patrick shook his head sharply. His voice took on the clipped staccato of irritation. "Violet, I should not have to beg for you to support me in my career."

"Career?" That absurdity took the strain too far. Violet shot to her feet. The violence of her rise sent the loose pins skittered from her hair. Auburn curls tumbled to the small of her back. She flung them back from her face as she faced her husband at last.

Narrowed blue eyes took in the expression of stark surprise that ambushed Patrick Crawley's handsome face for a moment.

"A career, Patrick, is an act of locomotion undertaken by a horse. It is _not_ an excuse to abandon Downton and your responsibilities for the distant pleasures of foreign shores." She lifted her chin. "Whether they are conducted in the presence of our future king or not."

For a moment, Patrick Crawley gaped at his imperious young wife like a blowfish. It was rare that Violet permitted anything so vulgar as anger to break the smooth facade she presented to the Polite World.

Then his brown eyes darkened.

"I expect you must be a little wearied from your journey today." He picked up a hairpin resting by his foot. "That can be the only excuse for you to indulge in such low-class histrionics."

"It is not a hysterical wish to avoid witnessing my husband's flagrant infidelity!"

"Infidelity?" The word fell from his lips like a chip of ice.

She had pushed him too far. Patrick Grantham made it clear from their very wedding night that she, Miss Violet Steyne of nowhere in particular, was in position, legally or socially, to question his actions. Her remit was the house and children and a countess, a true lady, as her mother so often reminded her, understood her boundaries.

Her place was not to question the masculine world in which her husband moved. She requested. She submitted with graceful dignity. She did not demand and she most certainly did not intrude on the grubbier mésalliances that took her husband from the marriage bed.

A lady, according to Lady Harriet Steyne, did not allow such tawdry concerns to dictate her emotions. She was cool and polite and proper. She honoured and respected her Queen, her God and her family.

And she honoured her husband above all. Particularly, when her husband was the Earl of Grantham and close confidante of the Prince of Wales.

But there was the honour due to a husband on one hand. And, Violet thought, there was the humiliation of sitting down to dinner opposite her husband's mistress on the other.

She straightened her shoulders. "You may regret my absence, Patrick. I am sure Jacqueline Bywell will not."

The hairpin snapped down onto her rosewood dresser with an audible click. "Whatever arrangement I have with Lady Bywell, madam, is entirely my own affair and none of _your_ concern."

"Except when I must sit opposite the creature for the duration of seven courses. I will not, Patrick!"

"Violet-!"

A gasp from the door cut off the remainder of the Earl's retort. In the doorway, one of the maids, a blowsy young girl in the blue-and-White uniform of the nursery, flinched under the unexpected attention of her employers. "M'lord… M'lady. I'm sorry, I just thought Master Robert would-"

"Mama!" The young boy escaped his nursemaid's grip. His nightgown billowed like a ship in sail as he raced across the room. One small, warm hand slipped into Violet's palm and squeezed.

Blue eyes looked up to the young Countess, a reflection of her own. "Mama, Potter said that I may not visit you tonight but I haven't seen you all _day_."

"Downton." The young viscount flinched a little at his father's tone. "Is this any way to conduct yourself?"

It took every modicum of Violet's self-control not to run her hand over the fine brown hair and cup the head that now hung low at his father's admonition. Patrick was firm that such pampering gestures were ill-suited for a boy of nearly seven years old.

She gave the damp fingers a small squeeze, unnoticed by his father. "You must not burst into a room in such a fashion, Robert."

"No, Mama. No, Papa. I'm sorry, Papa." The words wrung from the bent head in a low voice. Robert Grantham, Viscount Downton lifted his head, trouble swimming in the blue eyes. Even at his young age, he could sense the tension running through his mother's elegant bedchamber. "It was just.."

"A gentleman does not offer excuses for his behaviour, Downton." Violet flinched, knowing, as Patrick himself did, that his words were directed to her as much as the little boy shivering between them.

"I'm sorry, Papa."

Patrick's saturnine face softened a little at the tremulous voice. He bent down, until his head was level with his son. Gently, he chucked the child under his chin. "Be a little man now and, tomorrow, I'll take you to the sailing pond at Hyde Park, hmmm?"

A small smile curved at the boy's lips. "Ca-can Primrose come too?"

"If I receive a good report from Nanny Kettle in the morning, Primrose may come as well. Now make your bow to your Mama."

The little hand slipped from Violet's palm. With studious care, Robert bowed to his mother and father. "Goodnight, Mama."

Violet curled her fingers into fists to resist the temptation to hug her son. "Good night, Robert."

With another proper bow to his father, the night-gowned viscount walked carefully back to the door. Potter grabbed his hand. She bobbed an awkward curtsey and disappeared, her mumbled "Good night, m'lord," lost in her haste to leave her employers' apartments.

"Primrose?" Violet's voice rose. "Surely the place for your dogs is in the country?"

"The place for my dogs, madam, is wherever I choose." His gaze swept her form from the red curls piled on top of her head to her slippered feet peeping from beneath her petticoats. "It is the same for my wife. One hour, Violet." He picked up the silver bell on her dresser and shook it.

At the gentle chimes, the plump figure of Violet's dresser appeared. Black eyes flickered once to her mistress's _deshabille_ and then back to the earl, scrupulously attired in evening black. She bobbed a curtsey. "My lord?"

"The Countess will accompany me this evening."

Again, the black eyes danced to Violet, then to the night-time pot of chocolate provided a scant half-hour before. Martine had been a dresser for many years and knew better than to ask question. "Very good, my lord."

Patrick Grantham shot his recalcitrant wife a final warning glare. "I will be waiting in the drawing room. Do not be late." He turned and walked from the room. The door closed on his back with a subdued click.

Violet slumped back onto the stool of her dresser and closed her fists against the urge to cry.


	2. Chapter 2

**Winter Rose**

* * *

 _"I don't dislike him. I don't like. Which is quite different._

 _-_ Lady Violet Crawley

* * *

 **Marlborough House,**

 **Residence of HRH Prince Edward of Wales**

* * *

The phlegmatic butler cleared his throat.

"The Earl and Countess of Grantham."

"Patrick!" The Prince of Wales had a bellow to match his burgeoning stomach. He sauntered to the head of the room, a full-sized frigate of a man in evening tails. "Good God, man, I thought you'd never appear. M'wife was convinced you had crashed your carriage."

"An unexpected delay, your Highness." The Earl bowed to his future sovereign.

"And Lady Grantham as well. An unexpected pleasure." The Prince took Violet's hand between his two meaty paws and bestowed a hearty kiss to the gloved fingers.

"We are honoured by your invitation, your Highness." The Prince's fondness for a pretty face was well known. Violet rose from her curtsey with a smile pinned to her lips.

"Honoured, is it? I hope you shall feel the same once you see what pigswill my chef has served up to us this night."

"Your Highness jests." Grantham entered the ribaldry with a hearty laugh. "With two French chefs competing for your attention, your Highness has the best table in London."

"Ah, but one knows the old adage about too many cooks to spoil the broth."

Violet's heart sank to the tips of her high-heeled shoes. As if from a distance, she heard her husband greet the new arrival. "Hepworth. Wouldn't think you knew much about cookery."

Harold Hepworth patted the lean expanse of his stomach. An ingratiating smile danced on his lips. "Appearances belie reality, Grantham. I fancy I can tell the difference between a game pie and a _boeuf en croquillant_. Lady Grantham."

Violet met the puckish blue eyes and inclined her chin in recognition. "Lord Hepworth."

"You can escort Lady Grantham to the dining room, can't you, Hepworth?" The Prince passed over Violet's hand as one would a parcel, an absent pat her only apology. "Grantham and I have something to discuss about a dog."

A gleam of interest took hold of Patrick Crawley's eye. "You highness is looking to breed?"

"Not precisely." Throwing an arm the size of a Christmas ham around the younger man's shoulders, the Prince bent his head to quiet discussion. "Rather, the question has arisen…"

"And I have the honour of _your_ company, my lady." A soft baritone purred in Violet's ear.

She repressed the urge to snatch her hand back from his soft grip. "Believe me, my Lord, the honour is entirely yours."

With his laughing blue eyes and the negligent curl to his hair, Harold, Viscount Hepworth was a sought after companion in many a lady's drawing room. He was also an inveterate womaniser and gambler who rationed his attentions according to the wealth and position of the recipient.

THe viscount cast an appreciative glance at the low neckline of her evening gown, the green silk glowing against her pale skin. "Such alabaster skin. One would nearly believe you were carved from ice."

Violet's lips tightened in irritation. Hepworth delighted in the soubriquet Society bestowed on the imperious Countess of Grantham: the Ice Queen. It served as spur to his unceasing campaign of taunting flirtation. "That would be a medical miracle beyond the imagination of even Lady Mary Shelley." She retorted in a crushing tone. "Hardly the view of a man of sense."

"But a man of sense would know there was fire beneath that ice. You have heard the old rumours about those with such fiery hair…?" He plucked a loose lock from Violet's bare shoulder, the manicured fingers ghosting across her collarbone. Rubbing the auburn curl between finger and thumb, he raised it a little closer to his nose. "Does it too smell of Violet?"

"Remove your hand, sir." She longed to stamp on his foot, to rip herself from the trapping arm and slap his face for his presumption. But eight years swimming in the shark pool of London Society had taught her to curb her temper. Her voice was steely with dislike. "My husband is scant steps behind us."

To her utter disdain, Hepworth dropped the mussed curl. Small blue eyes darted a hunted glance at the empty corridor behind them. He looked like Robert when he was caught teasing Rosamund until she cried.

Reassured in their privacy, Hepworth turned a charming smile back to Violet. She met it with a haughty eyebrow. "An needless warning, Violet."

"Was it? I felt the timing most opportune." She took a pointed step backwards, away from the cloying intimacy of his grip. "We have reached the dining room unharmed, my lord."

Beyond the door, the sounds of the gathering assembly was already audible, a modulated cacophony. Above the general hubbub, a nasal twang broke through the English accents, followed by a high-pitched giggle.

It would be too much to say that Hepworth flinched at the sound of his railroad heiress. Still, his throat convulsed much as if trying to swallow an indigestible bite.

"I must alert his Highness. I dare say the gong shall sound soon."

"Such a pity." Violet murmured. An errant smile of satisfaction tickled the corners of her lips.

She celebrated too soon. Quick as a striking adder, Hepworth took up her gloved hand. He pressed the white cloth to his lips. Over the ridge of her knuckles, blue eyes taunted Violet. Propriety trapped her hand between his, forcing her to endure the insult and the sly insinuation of his finger along the sensitive skin of her inner wrist.

Releasing her at last, Heptworth sketched a bow. "I only dare hope we may be dining partners… My ice queen."

If she had to rearrange all the seating plans beforehand, Violet would ensure that this was not the case. She glared at Hepworth's retreating back. "If I were an ice queen," She muttered to herself. "I would freeze your impudent lips off!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Winter Rose**

* * *

 **Marlborough House, London**

 **Several hours later**

* * *

"It is a disgrace!"

Sir William Bywell thumped his fist upon the delicate Louis XIV side table. His bristling chin crackled with indignation. Pale eyes, rheumy from the lingering sting of cigar smoke, narrowed on the smooth face of his companion.

A look of horror spasmed the pallid face of Hepworth's American spouse. Ignored by both her husband and the surrounding company for much of the preceding dinner, she took advantage of the free-and-easy atmosphere of the drawing room to test her conversational skills against the least intimidating member of the party. In the genial and portly Sir William, Clarice Hepworth thought she perceived a fellow pariah. She summoned her courage and the information she had gleaned from the morning newspapers to venture a comment on the recent formation of the Irish Home Rule League.

The Duchess of Argyll tittered behind her gloved hand. "Goodness, what a goose that creature is! Doesn't she know Bywell is daggers drawn with those people? They say he fears for his seat in the House if this Shaw character gets any head of steam."

Violet studied the stammering blonde above the rim of her fan. One copper eyebrow raised. "Bywell is the fool if he cannot muster his forces against that rabble. His seat has been a rotten borough since the Domesday book."

"La, Countess, I wonder at your knowledge!" The two noblewomen looked up as a cloud of perfume enveloped them from high.

Lady Bywell, a voluptuous woman who made the most of her attributes in a low-cut lilac gown, fluttered a peacock fan against the snowy mounds of her bosom. The gesture, drawing the eye to Lady Bywell's famous creamy skin and bountiful figure, was designed to attract the attention of the masculine half of the drawing room. In this object, the lady succeeded admirably, having already received compliments from the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Argyll in quick succession.

The Earl of Grantham had not been so quick. But then, Violet reflected in bitter irony, her husband had greater leisure to peruse the fleshy charms of Lady Bywell in their own, private, time together.

Above the luxuriant feathers, two black eyes gleamed with feral delight. "I declare, I can barely suffer to pick up a book. I fear I am sadly out of touch compared to Lady Hepworth and your own good self." She paused and tapped the stem of her fan against her full ruby lips. "But then, _modern_ women have such _progressive_ views, do they not?"

Violet was not quite sure which particular insult in that poisonous little speech she resented more: to be labelled in the same category as the unfortunate Clarice Hepworth, the laughing stock of London; or the implication that to be modern and progressive was an inherent crime.

Her mother had expressed similar views to Jacqueline Bywell. If there was one promise Violet had made, it was never, _never_ to duplicate her mother.

"Indeed, Lady Bywell." A casual flick of the wrist and her own fan was unfurled. The gilded paper glittered like a shield in the soft candlelight. "So refreshing, don't you think? More interesting than the stale, out-dated views of the _older_ generation."

The woman standing above the young Countess could not repress a flush of anger. At six years Violet's senior and rapidly approaching middle-age, the shaft hit close to home for Lady Bywell.

"More interesting? La, what a unique view, Countess!" The titter flew as fast as her beating fan. "I dare say, in some quarters. But in the general run?"

"Surely you are aware, Lady Bywell, that I take pride in not placing my behaviour with the lowest common denominator."

The Duchess did not need to gasp. Violet knew she had taken her taunts too far. Two spots of anger appeared under Jacqueline Bywell's liberal application of rouge. The sloe-dark eyes narrowed in feline rage. If before Violet had a rival, it was beyond doubt that she know had an enemy.

Well. The young Countess inhaled the drawing room's stale air. The flicker of Hepworth's waistcoat caught her eye. It would not be the first.

"My Lord Grantham?" Jacqueline's eyes never left Violet's face even as the kittenish purr gurgled through the room.

Violet's fingers tightened on the stem of her fan so strongly, she was in danger of ripping the delicate paper. As eager as one of his hounds, her husband of eight years strolled from the clump of gentlemen gathered about the Prince of Wales to the siren call of Lady Bywell's tones. To the stranger, his face was a bland, polite mask. To Violet, it was as plain as a fly rolling in a pot of marmalade.

The young Countess scarcely attended to the Duchess of Argyll's murmured excuse, the rustle of her departing skirts. Loyalty could not be expected in matrimonial matters. God knows, the Duchess had her own problems with which to contend. Argyll's gambling debts were saved from being scandal fodder for the periodicals only by the dint of his blood connection to the Lord Chancellor.

"Lady Bywell. How may I be of service?"

"My lord, you must help me. I have been recounting to _dear_ Lady Grantham that amusing anecdote you mentioned _last night_ …" The dark eyes flicked to Violet's face to see if the implication dawned on her nemesis.

Last night. Violet saw the unconscious smile on her husband's face, the softening of tense jaw muscles at the memory. Her feet itched to stamp on Jacqueline Bywell's smirking face. Her cheeks burned in humiliation but she would not lower her chin in the face of this woman's insult. For insult it was. They both knew that Patrick Crawley had not returned to Grantham House last night.

It took every ounce of self-control to remain on the chaise-lounge, calmly plying her fan. But she had been raised in a school of discipline and self-control was her watchword.

"…Last night." Lady Bywell continued. "But I am so unutterably stupid, I have forgotten all the details. I fear _dear_ Lady Grantham is out of all patience with me."

"How unfair, Violet." The words were cool. He expended more passion summoning one of his damnable dogs.

"Perhaps now your presence is amply provided, Grantham, Lady Bywell can conclude her epic? I see Sir William is becoming restless."

"William will remain." Lady Bywell stated, her voice flat with indifference. A beat later, it had resumed its girlish coo. "It was about dear Alfie, do you recall?"

"I collect, Lady Bywell, you refer to his Grace, the Duke of Edinburgh?" Did a generous bosom entitle the woman to use and abuse the Christian name of every titled gentleman in the vicinity?

"Why, of course."

"How extraordinary." Violet marvelled in false wonder. "To hear a Prince of the Blood so… _casually_ addressed."

"Violet."

"Yes, Grantham?"

He did not continue.

" _Alfie_ was mentioning some of the curious customs these Russians have. Diving into the ice, imagine! _Naked._ " The word emerged in a horrified whisper.

"I imagine such an image remained seared in your mind, Lady Bywell."

The dark beauty glared at the pale face set serenely beneath her. "You are not shocked, Lady Grantham?"

"I imagine the Russian people have a marvellous resistance to the common cold. Other than that, the customs practiced in Muscovy are beyond my particular control, I fancy."

"Perhaps not for much longer?"

"I _beg_ your pardon?" Her voice cut as icy as a Russian Winter.

Innocent surprise sat ill on such a painted face. "Grantham? You have not mentioned it?"

"Have not mentioned _what_?" Violet snapped, her patience for this game of cat-and-mouse running thin.

For the first time, Grantham appeared uncomfortable. He gave his white satin waistcoat a tug, a futile gesture to cover the hint of his paunch. "Really, Jacqueline, this is hardly the place."

"But we cannot allow the Countess to be the _last_ to know."

"No, _we_ cannot, Grantham." Violet rose to her feet, a waterfall of silk petticoats falling around her legs. Standing, she was nearly nose-to-nose with her saturnine husband and topped his impudent mistress by several inches.

Taking advantage of her height to stare in disdain down her aquiline nose at the coquette, Violet demanded once more. "Mentioned what, Grantham?"

"Violet, you are causing a scene." Patrick hissed, taking hold of her bare elbow. "Sit down."

From behind her husband's bulk, Violet saw a medley of curious eyes turn in the direction of their little tête-à-tête. Hepworth had so abandoned the pursuit of ambition as to stand enthralled by the public sunder of the Grantham alliance. She turned back to her husband's angry gaze.

"A woman's privilege, Patrick. And that of a _wife_. Now _remove_ your hand and, pray, enlighten me as to this vital piece of information that Lady Bywell is unable to _spit out_."

The Earl licked his lips. But he removed his hand. "Very well. Since you will not wait a more appropriate time." A caricature of a smile enveloped his face. "I have the delight to inform you - indeed, the entire company present - that the marriage contract between Prince Alfred and the Grand Duchess Maria Alexandrovna has been finalised. I have been accorded the privilege of standing as groomsman and you, _my dear_ , will spend the New Year of 1874 in the Winter Palace of St Petersburg."

He leaned in. A harsh whisper brushed the shell of Violet's ear. "And believe me, Violet, when I assure you that, in this particular matter, you cannot refuse."


	4. Chapter 4

**Winter Rose**

* * *

 _"...her husband will tell her what her opinions are."_

\- Lady Violet Crawley

* * *

The knife scraped loud against the slice of burnt toast. The noise sawed through the tense silence with a serrated edge.

The Earl of Grantham, his toast buttered, replaced the implement on his side plate. It met the China plate with a clang.

The footman flinched.

Violet took a sip of her morning tea and waited for the opening salvo.

The Earl brushed a stray toast crumb from his morning suit before raising a dark frown to the woman seated opposite. His wife was, as usual, dressed with impeccable taste in a fresh lilac walking dress, her hair caught up in an informal snood. The girlish colour suited her, reminding the earl of the perfect young debutante he had wooed and wed nine years previously. A debutante, her hag of a mother had assured him, who was polite and malleable and fully aware of the distinction conferred upon her head by his attentions.

It had taken only a countess's coronet to uncover the line of steel running up that perfectly composed spine, Patrick Crawley reflected sourly. And the rat-trap brain hiding behind such guileless blue eyes. It was a small mercy to the world that Violet had not be born a man.

The earl ignored the lingering chill of trepidation as he confronted his wife.

"I did not appreciate your behaviour last night."

Violet treated her husband to a brittle smile. "In that, we are in accord, Grantham."

"You embarrassed me with your rudeness to Lady Bywell."

Violet set her tea-cup down carefully. The delicate china made not a sound as it returned to the matching saucer. The action complete, she raised her eyes to the flustered footman her husband had ignored before commencing his diatribe.

The young man took advantage of her silent dismissal and fled.

Now, alone at last with Patrick, Violet dabbed the linen napkin against her lips. "I am glad you chose to have this conversation over breakfast, Patrick." The words were bright with sarcasm. "It sets such a delightful _tone_ for the remainder of the day."

He ignored her barb.

"I shall expect you to apologise to her."

Violet's skin turned icy with fury. "Apologise?" The word cracked with temper. Fighting for control, the Countess resumed her serene, rational voice. "If Jacqueline Bywell wishes to avoid being exposed to insult, she would be advised not to attend the same functions as her lovers' wives. And I assure you, Grantham," She uttered the title with the contempt of a headmistress for an exceptionally slow pupil. "I do not misuse the plural. Bywell's _amours_ are such, one must hesitate even when using the hereditary title of 'Lady' before her name."

She thought he would lose his temper at that. In many ways, Patrick was a simple man. Quick to defend friends, equally quick to attack those he considered enemies to his own interests. Robert resembled him in that.

A lady could not rely on the brute strength of her anger. Ice must be her weapon and her tongue like a needle, pricking the giant until he should collapse.

The first tremor of unease skittered up her spine when Patrick smiled.

"Do you think to upset me with petty gossip, Violet? I know precisely what sort of woman Jacqueline is. Why do you think I have her as my mistress? It makes such a change from my wife."

Violet had been raised to believe that, unlike sticks and stones, words could never hurt one. But the comparison between herself and the Bywell broodmare - the comparison in which she fell short in every estimation - was as sudden as a slap on her cheek.

She took a deep breath. Aiming for nonchalance, she reached out and raised the tea-cup to her lips once more. Tremors shook the liquid surface.

"I wonder then, Patrick, how you can bear my company all the way to Russia? Surely, you and, ah, _Jacqueline_ would prefer a more… Liberated journey into the wilderness?"

"You are my wife. Your place is at my side." He stated. He reached for another piece of toast.

The sound of his relentless chew was akin to medieval torture.

Violet cupped her other hand under the porcelain cup, trying to warm her frozen fingers. His words were flat with finality. It would be in the family interest for them to fake the happy couple at the Royal alliance. For Patrick, family was the first consideration. Pleasure - either his own or his wife's - came a distant second.

But she had to try. She had promised Roberta and Violet hated to break a promise to her baby sister.

"It is impossible for me to attend."

He raised his eyebrows. His mouth was still full of toast but, ever the gentleman at the table, he swallowed before responding. "I'm sorry?"

"It will be Roberta's first Season next year. I promised her that I would be her chaperone."

Roberta had been in a tizzy of excitement over her postponed debut for months. Every precious letter Violet received read like a list of fabrics and dancing steps. When Violet offered to step into their mother's shoes as chaperone, the ink splotched across the page with Miss Roberta Steyne's delighted acceptance. The plans began at once for a lavish ball in the young lady's honour. Violet was determined that Roberta should enjoy a Season entirely different from that her elder sister undertook.

And now, a wave crashing against castles of sand, Patrick destroyed their hopes.

Violet brushed a stray curl behind her ear. She forced herself to meet the hard stare with a cool gaze of her own. "It is quite impossible for me to go to Russia." She repeated.

"Nonsense."

"N-n-nonsense?"

"To chaperone the Season of a country miss instead of attending the most prestigious event in Europe? I will not permit it." He shrugged. "Your mother did an adequate job with you. I am sure she is more than capable of doing the same for your sister."

"But I _promised_ Roberta."

"Then you were immeasurably foolish. I did not think it of you, Violet." He mocked.

"She is my sister. My _only_ sister."

"Then we shall be sure to send an engagement gift to indicate our regard. From Russia." He reiterated.

"I would rather present it in person!" She snapped. Unable to bear the stillness any longer, Violet rose to her feet. The halved grapefruit sat in the middle of her bowl, the glistening segments untouched. She couldn't eat it now. The very thought of food turned her stomach.

The Countess strode to the bay windows of the breakfast room. Sunlight streamed from the weak English sky through sheer muslin drapes. It glittered against her hair, sending the auburn mass into a riot of gold and flames.

Her husband, observing her from half-lidded eyes, smiled. "You will be pleased to hear, no doubt, that neither Lady Bywell nor her repugnant husband will be in attendance at the wedding."

"I could not care if that woman was at the bottom of the sea." The glare of the sunlight made it difficult to see her expression. He regretted that. Some strange part of Patrick Crawley still thrilled at digging under his elegant wife's skin. Five years of infidelity had not dampened the fascination Violet could command from him.

He cleared his throat. It had grown strangely tight. "Robert will, of course, join us. His tutor as well."

"And Rosamund?" The words came her lips as though from a stranger.

"She is too young. I have asked James to take her in. Georgina will take care of her."

"No!"

Violet spun around. The concealed fury of moments before was replaced at once with naked revulsion. "As well leave your only daughter with a snake, Patrick! If Robert's tutor can stomach the journey, then so too can Rosamund's nursemaid."

"A babe, travelling thousands of miles on a cold ship?" He scoffed. "Be reasonable, Violet."

"There is nothing reasonable in your entire proposition, Patrick. I merely follow your lead. Rosamund will do perfectly well. If you are intent to sacrifice your family on the altar of advancement, let none be spared. Women, children, all."

"Dear me. I never knew you for melodramatics, madam." He remarked in a silky voice.

"You said yourself you desired a change in my demeanour, Grantham." She sketched a mocking curtsey. Her hand flourished in the air, like an actress accepting adulation. Or a duellist flinging down the gauntlet.

He rose from his own seat, brushing the last of the crumbs from his coat. "Change is all very well, Violet. But do not forget your position."

"Be assured, Grantham. I, at least, remember my vows to honour and obey. I do not break my promises." Blue eyes, hard as lapis, swept the earl a final glare. She strode to the panelled entrance to the dining room. Twisting open the gilded knob, she turned about to face her husband once more. "For better or for worse."

Patrick Crawley's retort, weak and protesting, was lost in the decided snap of the door shutting in his face.


	5. Chapter 5

**Winter Rose**

* * *

If it was possible to bottle happiness and sell it as a liquid, one would think that the Honourable Miss Roberta Steyne bathed in it.

The pale cheeks were flushed and smiling, the blue eyes glowing with excitement, as she picked up the simple new bonnet. Twisting and turning a thousand different ways in front of the gilded mirror, she exuded pleasure like a purring cat.

"Violet, it is _heavenly_!"

"Very pretty." From the couch, Aunt Roberta folded her hands on her burgeoning lap. A shrewd eye darted towards her niece. "And cost a pretty penny too, I dare say."

"Oh, Aunt!"

Violet shrugged. "Patrick gives me ample pin money." She rose up from the faded couch to stand behind her little sister. Carefully, she adjusted the hat so it tilted down over one eye at a rakish angle. "I know it can't make up for missing your Season, Dolly." She couldn't help the pang of anger bleeding into her voice.

"I don't mind." A thin hand reached up to cover one of Violet's lace mittens. Roberta smiled at her sister in the reflection. "Honestly I don't, Vivi."

But Violet did.

She turned away from the mirror before the glass betrayed her feelings. Settling the full moon of her skirts in a neat puddle, she took her seat with all the gracefulness of the Countess of Grantham. "I've put in a good word for you with some of the ladies of my acquaintance. You shan't want for ball invitations. And I've warned Madam Heloise that you will need a presentation gown. She trained under Worth in Paris. She'll see everything is right for your Court Presentation. You must tell Mama that she is not to consider the cost, I-"

"Roberta." Her aunt's quiet voice cut through Violet's rattle of bright chatter. "Perhaps you should go and show your mama the lovely hat Violet has brought you."

Roberta opened her mouth to protest but something in her aunt's tone stopped the words before they took shape, Picking up her skirts, she gave her elder sister a smile. Her heeled boots made a patter of thuds across the floorboards before the closing door muted their sound completely.

Aunt Roberta opened the pocket watch that hung always at her waist. "There. I estimate we have at least fifteen minutes before your mother arrives. Now. Perhaps, you will speak like a sensible woman and explain what is the matter."

Violet took a deep breath. And explained.

Roberta Pritching stroked the engraved cover of her pocket-watch. It belonged to her late husband, the same Colonel Pritching who fell at the barricades of Lucknow while his wife loaded the guns beside him. A frown settled between the strong eyebrows. "I warned your mother about your match. He's a good man-"

She paused, caught Violet's sceptical eyebrow. The neat head shook gently. "He is. Despite what you may think, my dear. But he was never a good man for you."

"Good man or not," Violet kept her voice at an indifferent monotone. "Grantham is my husband. There will be no other man." A hard smile quirked the corner of her lips. "Attending to the dictates of one is quite enough."

"We shall see."

"No, aunt." Violet's report was firm, nearly curt. "I'm sorry. We shall not see. My life is fixed. All I can hope is to raise my children and see that Dolly is happily wed. What more can a woman expect?"

"Do you truly believe that your life is now so limited? That you can hope for nothing more?"

"Hope is something that distracts one from realities."

"One of your mama's dictates, no doubt." Roberta commented in a dry tone. "Perhaps it is good that your are going to Russia, Violet dear. You need to expand your horizons and broaden your mind beyond the limits of your own drawing room."

Violet blinked. "That is unfair, Aunt Roberta! We cannot all trek into the wilderness of the subcontinent." She retorted with asperity.

"That does not mean that we must become little more than well-dressed slabs of flesh. A Christmas ham has more ambition than that!"

The sharp rejoinder was so blunt, Violet gave a startled laugh. Catching the twinkle in her aunt's eye, the first foray mellowed and rounded into a warm chuckle. Roberta Pritching's expression softened to see the frozen facade of the Countess of Grantham break apart to reveal the young goddaughter she knew well.

"Much better." She stated with satisfaction. "I wondered for a moment. You need to find better company, Violet. Someone who makes you laugh."

Violet raised her eyebrows. "And where shall I find such a person in London, ma'am?"

"Perhaps," Mrs Prtiching reflected. "It is well that you will be going to St Petersburg. After all, who knows what sort of person you may meet there?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Winter Rose**

* * *

 _He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun._

 _Yet, he saw her, like the sun, even without looking._

\- _Anna Karenina,_ Leo Tolstoy

* * *

Violet's first impression was… Light.

There was so much much light.

The sky blazed a miraculous blue above the swirling waters of the Neva. Along the banks of the great river, the palaces of the Russian nobility glowed with golden stone. Snow coated the streets and roofs of the great city. In the sunshine, the ice crystals sparkled, so bright it hurt the eye to gaze too close. It was like sailing into the embrace of a diamond-encrusted necklace.

In the distance, rounded domes thrust into the horizon, their spires decorated with crosses. Green, blue and gold, they were testament to the hundreds of churches that stood within the royal city's boundaries. Enormous boulevards, just about visible from the river, stretched from the churches in every direction. The breadth and space of the city took Violet's breath away.

It was more than mere geography that separated this Venice of the North from the city she left behind. London was a city of tight, maze-like streets where the smog hung so thickly, shopkeepers on Bond Street were forced to light their lamps at noon. Here, the fresh winds from the Baltic blew away any lingering traces of soot and sent colour rushing to the cheeks.

Passengers crowded the decks of the PS Castalia, eager to catch their first glimpse of the Russian capital. The Granthams, as part of the Prince of Wales' personal circle, held a favoured position, close to the railings and with the best possible view of the approaching city.

Violet unhooked a hand from inside her beaver fur muff. She leaned against the railings, blue eyes screwed up against the glare. Despite the Arctic breeze sneaking through the ship, she barely felt the cold. Excitement raced through her blood, sending colour to her cheeks and blood pumping through her veins. She drew a lungful of the open air, wondering if she would catch the scent of the city on the breeze. The freezing snap was so cold, it burned the back of her throat and chest.

"Lady Grantham? Everything is correct?"

Biting back a gasp of shock at the pain, Violet turned. "Thank you, Count." She offered the mound of furs a small smile. "It is just the cold air. I don't think I am accustomed to it just yet."

The enormous fur hat nodded gravely. In the thin slit between collar and hat-brim, it was just about possible to distinguish the face and thinning moustache of Count Nicholas Sumarokov. Unlike the English half of the party, the Russians did not view the cold weather as a novelty. "The breeze is, how you say, nipping."

"Nippy."

"Thank you." Ever punctilious, the young Count gave a small bow. "I am grateful for your assistance. My English, she is not perfect."

"Very few are."

Violet and the Count glanced up at the unexpected interruption. Patrick Crawley raised an eyebrow. He had been in polite conversation with the Russian Ambassador but a lull in the civilities drew his attention back to his wife.

The little of Count Nicholas's skin exposed to the air flushed a dark red. "Pardon, Lord Grantham? I do not understand."

"An English joke, Count." Patrick smiled. " _Une petite blague à l'anglaise_. Violet, perhaps you will attend to the children?"

Violet glanced back. The small group was just visible through the crowds. Robert looked like a mole, bundled up in dark sable. Beside him, Nurse Kettle bore a harassed expression, small eyes darting across the crowd. Rosamund perched in her stout arms. Even from this distance, Violet could see that the little girl was on the verge of tears.

Her eyes flicked one final time to the quayside. Then she nodded. "Naturally, Patrick."

"Permit me to accompany you, Countess." Count Nicholas made a valiant effort to click his heels together and bow. He half-succeeded. Patrick's lip quirked then he turned back to the Ambassador.

"You must be glad to be home, Count Sumarokov." Violet raised her voice to be heard above the hubbub of the crowd.

"To Petersburg? Yes, Countess. I miss Russia very much. But London is…" He struggled for the words. " _Dévorant_."

"All-consuming?"

"Yes." He attempted another bow. This time, he did not succeed at all, hampered by his grip on her arm and the crowds pressing in upon them.

"Your French is excellent." Far better than his English but Violet was too polite to comment on that.

"Everyone in Petersburg speaks French. I had French governess as a child. She was very strict." He confided. For a moment he reminded Violet forcibly of her own son and less of a fellow adult. The fine peach fuzz of his moustache quivered as he spoke. "She made me memorise Jean de la Fontaine's Fables until I could recite them perfectly."

Violet couldn't help a smile at the artless comment. "I take it Madame did not inspire you with literary ambitions?"

"I was not a good pupil." Count Nicholas was as impervious to humour as he was to insult. "Do you enjoy literature, Countess?"

"I try to keep up with the latest fashions."

"I will introduce you to my aunt. She speaks excellent English and she is very much literal."

Violet blinked. "I… I am very glad to hear that."

"Yes." As they drew closer to the children and their attendants, Count Nicholas continued his conversation. "Always, she has authors and writers and thinkers in her _salon_. It is very popular. Princess Nashtya Fillipovna Sumarokov." A frown settled over his round eyes. "Some of them, I do not approve. But some are, how you say, unremarkable."

Violet was saved from the Count's remarkable grasp of English vocabulary by Robert tugging on her skirt. "Mama, I want to go to the front."

"Yes, Robert. Kettle, is Lady Rosamund all right?"

"Soldiering on, my lady." Stout Kettle's stoic expression would have done credit to Marcus Aurelius himself. "But my little lady finds all this tripping about unsettling."

Her voice suggested that Kettle concurred with the toddler's views. Violet bit back a sigh.

"I am sure that we will land soon, Kettle. Once we are installed in our accommodation, perhaps you will heat some sweet milk for Rosamund. That helps to settle her stomach, I find."

"Very good, my lady. I do hope, my lady, as these Russky houses have proper heating in them. Only, one does hear such stories. Swimming in ice ponds! I never would credit the like."

It was a relief that Count Nicholas's knowledge of English was limited enough that most of Kettle's speech floated over his head.

"Mama!" Robert tugged on Violet's skirts again. "Please, Mama! I want to see the palaces."

"We shall come to land very soon, Countess." Count Nicholas pulled a large gold fob from inside his furs and checked it. "I will escort you."

"Please, Count." The prospect of more of the Count's broken conversation was daunting. "That is not necessary."

The moustache quivered again. "I am charged to attend you, Countess. Ambassador Brunnov…"

That was stretching the truth. As the most junior equerry in the Russian Embassy, Count Nicholas had been assigned the unenviable task of instructing the Prince of Wales' party of English socialites in the niceties of Russian culture and history. This was easier said than done. Despite his best efforts, Count Nicholas had failed to command the slightest speck of attention from his audience. In the two-week long voyage, the Prince's guests showed more interest in whist and poker than in the reign of Peter the Great.

Count Nicholas was further hampered by his own abysmal grasp of the English language. Even after serving a year at the Court of St James, his conversation had not improved. Violet was one of the few passengers who took pity on the boy and pretended attention to his interminable lectures. As a result, the Count became her self-appointed shadow.

Even now, he offered her his arm with a bow. With the earnest look of a schoolboy, he indicated the fresh surge of the crowds towards the deck-rails. "As you can see, Countess. The ship is landing."

"Mama." Robert's blue eyes were as earnest as the young Count. "May I join you and Papa? May I see the Prince? Barrett said that Russians wear big hats, like the Archbishop of Canterbury."

Count Nicholas looked pained.

"That is most incorrect, my Lord." He spoke stiffly, giving Robert a little bow of acknowledgement. "The Archbishop, I have seen. He is an excellent man with a very great reputation. But he does not wear a Russian hat. At least, that I am aware. I cannot assure you for his private _dèshabille_ but…"

"Thank you, Count." Violet interrupted the young man before Robert's round eyes popped out of his head with astonishment. "Viscount Downton and I will be happy to accept your escort. Kettle, will you and Lady Rosamund be happy to travel to our accommodation alone?"

"Very good, my lady. Needs as must."

That was about as positive a response as Violet felt she was likely to receive. Holding out her hand, she gave her young son a smile. "Robert?"

The mittened fingers slid into her own. Robert looked up that the Count in fascination. This was the closest he had been to a genuine Russian in all his short life. "Is it true that Russians eat bears?"

For the second time that hour, Count Nicholas flushed in front of a Crawley male. "That is not true, most certainly." He led the way through the crowd, his hairy bulk acting as an effective battering ram. "We eat many meats in Russian. Also fish. But bear meat is inconceivable."

"Barrett said you did."

"I do not know Monsieur Barrett. I am quite sure he is a very good man. But it is inconceivable to eat bear meat. Certainly, we, how you say, _faire la chasse_ …"

"Mama," Robert whispered. "Why does a Russian speak French?"

"…and I believe the Prince Feodor Gregorovich possesses a bear in his menagerie. I cannot say if it is Russian bear. It may be American. American bears, I am informed, have a coat of brown and our Russian bears…"

"Lady Grantham?" A midshipman appeared before the trio. He gave a smart salute. "The Prince's compliments, my lady, and he requests that you join them for the disembarkation."

"Thank you. Robert?" Violet squeezed her son's hand. "Shall we go to see the Prince?"

"Yes, please, Mama!"

"Thank you for your escort, Count. I would be delighted to meet your aunt, if you would be so good as to introduce us."

"It will be of inestimable pleasure, Countess." The Count clicked his heels a final time before the crowds swallowed him up in the surging waves.

Lead by the midshipman, Violet and Robert reached the Royal party just as they were about to descend the gangplank. Patrick Crawley was already in place, close to the Prince's right hand. A small frown dipped between his tawny eyes at the appearance of his young son at such a formal meeting of dignitaries.

Violet cast a glance overboard at the crowds thronging the quayside. It seemed like the entire Russian court had turned out to welcome Prince Alfred's elder brother to St Petersburg. Sunlight glinted on a thousand silver honours and orders. Gold braid shone from every shoulder. The Russian ladies, elegant in rich velvets, darted in between the bright uniforms. Chaos reigned on the quays as well as on board.

The Prince of Wales and his wife descended first. Every step was measured exactly. Diplomats had slaved for days to decided the proper place for the two royal brother to meet. Prince Edward was the future King of England but Alfred, the Duke of Edinburgh, was engaged to the Tsar's favourite daughter. A delicate balance had to be achieved.

Halfway down the red carpet, the two brothers met. It was a strange sight. Alfred had already been in the Russian capital for several weeks. Like the rest of his native entourage, he was draped in heavy furs. An enormous sable hat perched on his head. Whispers and giggles rose from the English party at the new Royal fashion.

If he heard them, Prince Alfred gave no indication. A warm smile split his homely face. "Your Royal Highness is welcome to Petersburg." He gave a formal bow.

"Devil a bit, Affie! Is it always this cold?"

At his brother's irreverent greeting, the smile grew wider. "This, cold? Bertie, old man, this is positively tepid. You should hear some of the stories about real winter storms they get here."

"Good God, I feel colder already!"

Princess Alix, supported on her husband's arm, let out a merry laugh. A dutiful chorus of chuckles rose from the Prince's party.

Violet felt her skin prickle, an irritating sensation. She frowned and shook her head to rid herself of the strange feeling of being watched. She turned her head and then she saw _him_.

Two black eyes studied her from under heavy eyebrows. Violet could pick them out instantly, even among the crowd. The deliberate gaze seem to pick each portion of her face and figure and studio, it, lingering on her every feature: her red hair, her high forehead. He swept the curve of her lips, sketched the set of her shoulders. For a moment, with the force of his concentration, they were suspended in time. The only two people standing still in the crowd.

THe stranger was a dark Russian, swarthy and broad in a red brocade uniform. The breeze played with his thick black hair, turning the curls askew. Violet shifted her shoulders. She was not used to this, this deep scrutiny. No Englishman would be so forward or _bold_. She felt like a rabbit, caught in the spell of a black bear. It unsettled her, put her on the defensive. She lifted her chin and frowned.

The full lips curved up. He _grinned._ At her, the Countess of Grantham! Her free hand dug into her skirt, screwing up the material in a clenched fist. Who was this insolent man? How _dare_ he?

"Lady Grantham?"

The silky baritone broke Violet from her reverie. She lifted her head, startled to hear the English accent.

Viscount Hepworth smiled, so close to her shoulder, she could brush against his furs. A faint scent of cologne rose to sting her nostrils. "I see your frosty gaze has already captured one of our Russian hosts, my lady." He brushed his fingers against her elbow.

An entirely different sensation shuddered up Violet's spine. "Nonsense."

She glanced back. The dark-haired man was also interrupted. A companion in green poked him in the ribs, motioning towards to the two Royal brothers. The ceremony was reaching its close. Soon, the English party would separate into groups, ready to be escorted to their respective accommodations. The Russian in the red uniform joined the crowds, moving away from the quayside to where carriages waited nearby.

Probably she would never see the man again. That would be best.

She ignored the faint disappointment that fell in her stomach like a cold stone.

Hepworth touched her elbow again, his fingers curving around the soft cloth of her upper arm. "You may capture foreign hearts, my lady. But an Englishwoman is _best_ served," His grip tightened, digging into her flesh. "Closer to _home._ "

"Be assured, Lord Hepworth." Violet pulled her arm from his grip. Gathering Robert close, she started towards Patrick Crawley. "I prefer to remain at home. In the company of my _husband_."

Hepworth sketched a snide bow to her retreating back. "But does he prefer to remain with you, my lady?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Winter Rose**

* * *

 _"Boredom: the desire for desires"_

\- Leo Tolstoy

* * *

"Will that be all, my lady?"

"Oh!" Violet jumped. The silver-backed hairbrush clattered to the floor. "Matlock. Yes…Yes. What time is it?"

If she noticed her mistress's distraction, the experienced lady's maid did not mention it. She stooped to pick up the brush, replacing it on the dresser. "About half-past eight, my lady."

"Has Lord Grantham returned?"

"Not that I am aware, my lady. Shall I ask his lordship's valet?"

"No."

Patrick had sent a note to say he would be delayed. Hastily scribbled on the back of a napkin, it gave no indication when he would return or where he had gone. But that was to be expected. The two Princes, delighted to be in each other's company, had resolved to sample the pleasures of St Petersburg. As a member of the groomsmen, it could only be expected that Grantham would join them.

After all, the note suggested, Violet would have far too much to do, setting their new residence to rights. She would be too busy to socialise tonight.

Still unsettled from that strange incident at the quayside, Violet had been tempted to rip the note into a thousand shreds and watch it burn to cinders in the grate. She was not too busy for _that_.

The young Countess stared at her reflection in the looking glass opposite. The woman in the mirror did not conform to the image of the poised Countess of Grantham. A frown puckered the smooth brow between two fine eyebrows. The pink lips turned down in an troubled frown. Her fingers hammered the surface of the rosewood dresser in a military tattoo.

She looked restless, dissatisfied. Unhappy.

That would never do.

With a firm nod to the woman in the looking glass, Violet jumped to her feet. Her heeled slippers clipped the carpet as she marched to the large armoire in the far corner of her room. Ignoring the startled gasp from her maid, she ripped open the rosewood doors.

A thousand shimmering colours danced before her eyes. Day dresses, walking dresses, tea dresses, dinner dresses. Violet shoved through the first few, lifting and disregarding at will.

"My lady!" Matlock darted about her mistress's elbows. Horror at the wanton destruction of her orderly system widened her big dark eyes. "My lady, what is that matter?"

"Matter?" Violet turned back. The exertion brought a pink tinge to her pale cheek. Loose curls drifted about her face. Her attack on the armoire had dislodged some from her chignon. "Nothing is the matter, Matlock. On the contrary. I shall be going out this evening."

"Out, my lady?"

"To visit."

"To visit?"

"Will you insist on repeating every word I say, Matlock? Or will you perhaps be useful and help me in choosing a gown?"

"Of course, my lady. I'm sorry, my lady." The dresser jumped into the fray. With a practiced eye, she began to shift through the medley of garments. "May I enquiry of your ladship… Where?"

Violet paused. If she were still in London, that question would be immaterial. The silver salver in the hallway of Grantham House was always filled with invitations from any one of their acquaintances. It was one of the benefits of Patrick being an intimate friend of the Prince.

Here, she knew nobody.

Well, almost nobody.


	8. Chapter 8

**Winter Rose**

* * *

 _Mamihlapinatapai:_

 _A look, shared by two people, each wishing that the other would initiate something that they both desire but that neither wants to begin._

* * *

"It is pleasure most deep to escort you, Lady Grantham."

Sitting down in a carriage might not have been the best position in which to execute a bow. Nevertheless, Count Nicholas Sumarokov made a valiant effort.

Violet buried her hands deeper into the sable muff and gave the young Russian a smile. "The pleasure is entirely mine, Count Sumarokov. I'm grateful you were free to escort me."

"My aunt, Princess Nashtya, she will be delighted. She is a great admirer of your Monsieur Dickens. She has read the _Christmas Song_ many times. It will be of a happiness most supreme for her to meet an Englishwoman."

He pronounced 'Englishwoman' in the same way one would say 'rare African monkey'.

"The _soirée_ is entirely unexceptional, I assure you." Once Count Nicholas began to warm to his topic, he was like an unstoppable train. "The Prince Volonsky will be in attendance. He is a great conversationalist. The Princess Kuragin, Count Niemov and his family…" In the dusky light of the carriage, the Count's cheeks tinged pink. "The Count approves of my aunt very much. He is of a liberal mind. He admires your English Parliament very much. His daughter, Lidia, she too reads much of Monsieur Dickens. She particularly enjoys, ah…"

He fell into silence. The mention of the Countess Lidia Niemov seemed to act as a plug, stopping his babble in the middle.

Violet smiled a little to herself. "Countess Lidia, she is very pretty?"

"Exceedingly beautiful! Like an angel!" The instant the words were out of his mouth, his flush darkened. "Forgive me, I spoke out of turn. Lidia Ivanovna is a friend. She is very progressive, much like her father." He sighed.

Violet couldn't resist teasing the younger man. "Is it a bad thing to be progressive?"

"My father does not approve of progressives." The Count's voice was glum as mud. "He and my aunt have not spoken for many years. He was one of the nobles who opposed the Little Father's reforms for the serfs. He does not approve of me attending the Princess's _salons_."

"And Count Niemov?"

"Count Niemov holds my father as a sworn enemy. It is… How you say, _point non plus_."

The expression on the Count's face was tragic enough for Shakespearean drama. Violet adjusted the furred hood of her evening cloak, the movement enough to hide her amused smile. Scarcely in St Petersburg a day and already she was plunged into a star-crossed romance! Was this what Aunt Roberta meant by expanding her horizons?

The carriage drew to a halt opposite a set of wide marble steps. From outside, the coachman gave a guttural shout, which was answered by another. An instant later, the carriage door banged open.

A liveried footman, bundled up against the cold in an enormous greatcoat, stood outside the carriage. A torch flared in his hand, to escort the new arrivals to the door. Count Nicholas climbed down the carriage step, careful to avoid the stray patches of ice on the wide boulevarde. Turning back, he held out his hand for Violet.

The Princess's palace was a large building, three stories in height. Lights flared from every window, enticing the visitor inside with the promise of warmth. Of the two double doors at the head of the steps, only one was open, the better to keep out the freezing cold of January. Another servant waited at the doorway, his hands already outstretched to take their cloaks and gloves.

Following the deep bows of the servants, Violet and the Count made their way inside and up the wide stairs in the hall to the first floor. The walls glowed white and gold, interspersed with enormous portraits and tiny, illuminated icons.

"My aunt," Count Nicholas confided in an undertone, seeing Violet's eyes widen in surprise. "Is a lady most religious and devout. She has even travelled to Siberia to purchase an icon most rare, one of Simon Ushakov's works."

The enormous, sad eyes of the Byzantine figures seemed to follow them as they made their way down the hall. The footman leading their way paused outside another set of double doors. With another low bow, he asked Count Nicholas something in Russian.

"Count Nikolai Alexandreyevitch Sumarokov. Lady Violet Crawley, Countess of Grantham."

The servant nodded. His face was a blank mask, even as his eyebrows flared up in dismay that the foreign titles. Turning back to the door, he opened both of them with a flourish. He cleared his throat for silence, clicked his heels and bowed.

"Count Nikolai Alexandreyevitch Sumarokov. L-lady Violet Crawley, Countess of Grantham."

"Kolya!"

A middle-aged woman in rich cerise pushed through the teeming crowds. She flung her arms around the Count's shoulders. Two smacking kisses landed on each cheek. Her vigorous embrace knocked the heavy ruby pendant askew. The lady ignored the priceless jewel magnificently.

A rapid stream of French rattled from the lady's pinkened lips. The Count caught her gesticulating hands and pulled them down to grab her attention. Bowing again, he addressed the lady in English. "Aunt, may I introduce Lady Violet Crawley, Countess of Grantham."

"Ah!" The tornado in rubies and cerise silks spun about. Violet found her hands grasped in a grip that would not shame a blacksmith. "The very beautiful Englishwoman you described!" Her English was faultless, with a slight French rolling of her rrr's.

The Princess Nashtya shook Violet's hands warmly. "Kolya has told me all about you and your so English husband and so charming little boy. Please, please. You must come in, enjoy yourself."

She tucked Violet's hand deep into the crook of her elbow and whisked her away from Count Nicholas.

"My Kolya, he is a charming boy." She whispered in a cloud of French perfume. "But so very young, you understand."

"Yes, indeed." Violet cast a glance back over her shoulder. The Count, taking advantage of his guest's sudden departure, moved swiftly up to the party of young people gathered around the room's grand piano. It did not escape Violet's notice that one of the party was a very pretty blonde who greeted Count Nicholas with a shy smile.

The Princess caught the direction of her gaze and gave her own smile. "Yes, I have some hopes in that direction for my Kolya. But the parents…" She shrugged. "You understand. But enough of the young and their problems. Please. Let me introduce you to somebody interesting!"

With this innocent prelude, the Countess whirled Violet on a dizzying round of introductions. It seemed to Violet that she met someone from every titled family in St Petersburg. Counts merged with Baronesses. Princes mixed with philosophers and writers "you simply must have heard of! He is an excellent, excellent correspondent with the _Northern Bee_ …"

Violet smiled and nodded, chanted the long, complicated names three times in her head, repeated them aloud whenever possible. But after the first twenty names, the smiling faces and bright, curious eyes become a blur of sound and light. Her hand ached from the fervent grasp of her new acquaintances and her cheeks hurt from smiling. She was relieved when the Princess became distracted by the arrival of more new guests and swirled off on a wave of irrepressible energy to greet them. With a quiet sigh, Violet sank into one delicate chairs lining to walls of the reception room.

The room was stifling, even though icicles coated the Windows outside in exquisite blasts of frost. Violet tugged off her gloves. Gently, she splayed her fingertips across the cool, damp glass. The chill was refreshing. She wondered if anyone would notice if she laid her forehead along the glass, just to cool her eyes and face.

"Lady… Crawley? Yes?"

Violet jerked back in surprise. In the hubbub of the room, she had not heard anyone approach. Blue eyes looked up, wide with surprise.

The intruder was a tall man with a dark beard tickling the edge of his cravat. Heavy brows jutted over two pale eyes. The eyes were startling in his dark face, probing and restless. His gaze darted all over Violet but it did not offend. There was nothing intrusive in that gaze. Rather, it invited confidence, studying and accepting the world as its owner saw it.

"Lady Grantham." Violet corrected. Few of the Russians had grasped the intricacies of English titles in her introductions. She held out her gloved right hand. "And…"

"Ah. Forgive my curiosity." He saluted her fingers briskly and bowed. "Count Leo Tolstoy, at your service."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Count."

"It is an even greater pleasure to meet you, Countess." He spoke, like many of the Russians, with a French accent, so his _pleasure_ was pronounced like _plaisir_. "All the room is buzzing about the so striking English Countess the Princess has discovered. May I?"

The Russians, Violet was quickly discovering, paid little attention to strict codes of etiquette. She smiled and indicated the seat beside her. "Please."

He turned and took his seat with a quick flick of his coat tails.

Violet gave him a small smile. "Are you a soldier, Count?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Such a curious question, Countess! What would make you say that?"

His direct attack brought a tinge of embarrassment to Violet's cheeks. "I… I apologise…"

"No, please. I implore you." A dancing smile curled the corners of his moustache upwards. "I would like to know. I too am an observer of human nature. It will be most illuminating."

She shrugged, her fan fluttering a little faster to cool her cheeks. "There is something in the set of your shoulders… And the neatness in your attire." She shrugged. "I'm sorry."

"No, you are entirely correct. I served in the army for a while. In the Caucasus." He gave a theatrical shudder. "Enough!"

Violet gave a smile. "You are an observer, you say?"

"I hope so. Human nature…" He turned those pale restless eyes to her again. "It is most fascinating, is it not? The prosaic little details, the events that are momentous only to the people living them?"

He sighed. "Me, I hope to write of such things one day. Human nature, much as your Miss Austen, yes?"

"Have you had much success?" What a strange man, Violet thought. But interesting, and so easy to talk to. She set down her fan again, folding her hands in front of her lap.

"Not in such a style, no." As quickly as he spoke, a dark frown threatened the jut of his forehead. "It is difficult. The inspiration, you understand? I have the outside floss but the beating heart of the story…"

The rest of the Count's sentence was drowned in the general commotion that erupted from the doorway of the salon. The double doors burst open upon themselves. Before the footman could even announce their names, a group of booted and uniformed men charged into the room, muffled in coats and scarves against the cold.

The Princess Nashtya gave a shriek of delight. She darted towards the group. The leader unleashed a bear's roar of a laugh and swept the petite Princess up into an exuberant embrace. When she landed back on her feet, the Princess landed two smacking kisses on the man's cheeks, jabbering at the servant to take the gentlemen's coats and scarves. One of the gentlemen added another order, in Russian this time, that brought a cheer from his companions.

Bringing reinforcements from outside, the servants hastened to do their mistress's bidding. Quickly, the officers were divested of the coats and scarves, hats and gloves. They glittered in the candlelight, gold braid winking from shoulders and breast.

Violet stared at the invasion in astonishment. No hostess in London would have accepted such behaviour at her gathering. She scanned the dispersing officers, wondering who they were that they could so easily break the rules of social etiquette… Until she saw _him_.

It was at that exact moment that he looked up and saw _her_.

More than a tinge of embarrassment boiled in Violet's pale cheeks. Hastily, she lifted her fan to her face. The painted leaves whirred violently sending a cool breeze over her skin. She glanced over the fan's edge at him again. Just once.

Too late.

The black-haired giant strode in the direction of her little alcove. Booted feet ate up the distance between them. Black eyes gleamed like polished obsidian. They did not move from her face. The meaning they held was so clear, Violet understood it as if the stranger had shouted it to the gold and white ceiling.

 _Yes._

Her traitorous stomach flipped over. Her bare palm grew damp.

"Lady Grantham?" Count Tolstoy's voice seemed far away, on a different continent. "Are you quite all right?"

Before she had a chance to reply, the stranger was in front of them. He towered over the delicate chaise-lounge. Up close, Violet could see the heavy lashes around his dark eyes, the hairs tickling the edge of his upstanding collar. His lips curved in a slow smile, revealing clean, whole teeth.

Tolstoy scrambled to his feet. Tilting his head to one side, he made a soft, swift enquiry in French. The stranger replied in the same language, his attention never shifting from her face. Their exchange was too swift for Violet to understand but their intent was made clear soon enough.

Count Tolstoy cleared his throat. "May I introduce Lady Violet Crawley, Countess of Grantham." He announced in his clear, French-accented English.

As if in a dream, Violet raised her hand. Two warm palms engulfed the white glove. His skin burned into hers through the delicate linen. The stranger raised her hand a little higher, a little closer to his lips. Unconsciously, Violet found herself holding her breath.

"Lady Violet, may I introduce Prince Igor Sergeyevich Kuragin?"


	9. Chapter 9

**Winter Rose**

* * *

"Lady Violet."

The touch of his lips was feather-light on her knuckles. The air rushed from her lips in a sigh. The noise was so soft, it passed unheard by the surrounding company.

But he heard it. Prince Igor Kuragin raised his head a little. Two jet-eyes gleamed with laughter over the white ridge of her knuckles. Violet could swear she saw a little devil dancing in them, tempting his victim onwards.

"It is always a pleasure to make the acquaintance of a beautiful stranger." The Prince's smile curved upwards. Violet's eyes followed it, mesmerised. "But I think Count Tolstoy is premature. We have met before, yes?"

The quayside. _He remembered_.

The smile curled a little more. He still had not released her hand. His thumb traced a pattern over her fingers. Dancing there, teasing the sensitive skin under her glove.

Like Hepworth.

The comparison struck Violet like a cannonball.

This Prince Kuragin was undoubtably a rake and a rogue. He charmed women for the pleasure of seeing them fall. No doubt he already had a mistress waiting in some tawdry _pied-à-terre_ in a nearby street.

No doubt he already had a wife.

Cold water froze the heat in her veins. She, Lady Violet Crawley, would not be made a fool for a set of pretty compliments and a pair of black eyes. London called her the Ice Queen. Well, a queen had her pride.

She withdrew her hand from the Prince's warm grip. Keeping her voice deliberately cold, she raised her eyebrows. "Have we, your Highness?"

He blinked. His abandoned hand closed into a fist and he straightened. For a moment, he frowned at her. Then he smiled.

"Of course, you may not recall, Countess. But me?" He laid a hand across the row of medals on his uniform jacket. The place where he presumably kept his heart. "I assure you, it is seared into my memory. The docks? Yes?"

"Ah." With a careless flick of her wrist, Violet snapped open her fan. The decorated leaves beat a low tempo back and forth, a call to arms. Even the painted ladies on the delicate ornament seemed to glare at the Prince Kuragin.

"I don't recall seeing _you_ , Prince Kuragin." Her eyes were round with pretended innocence. Before he could frown again, she continued. "There was _one_ insolent man who stared me quite out of countenance. But I am sure that could not be _you_."

"Please, this phrase to… Stare out of countenance, yes? It means what?"

"To unsettle someone." The sentence was uttered with crushing scorn.

In London, her jibes sent presumptuous hostesses scuttling for safety and deflated the most egotistical of gentlemen. After a set-down by the Countess of Grantham, most people found a reason to excuse themselves… Speedily.

Prince Igor Kuragin tilted his head to the side. He frowned again. Any moment now, he would turn away and remove his _unnerving_ person from her presence. Violet was certain of it.

Suddenly, the great black head was flung back. The errant curl flew. A laugh like a bear's roar erupted from his lips. "Hah! Then I am a proud man indeed!" His head dropped back and the frown was entirely gone. Lines creased into a wide grin. He seemed ten years younger, a schoolboy ready for a joke. "I am a very proud man to be this insolent fellow."

"It was not the action of a gentleman."

"I consider it one of the greatest pleasures of this life to stare a very beautiful woman, how did you say? Quite out of countenance."

The dancing devil was back. "Besides, Lady Violet." Her name purred out in a low rumble. "I am not a gentleman. I am a Prince."

"By that reckoning, your Highness," Violet retorted stiffly. "I am a Countess and not a lady!"

"Yes. And we should be above such petty proprieties that plague simple ladies and gentlemen, no?"

Was the insufferable man ever lost for words?

"That fashion may prevail in Russia, Prince Kuragin. But I am English. In England, we do not forget our manners so much that we ignore other members of our party."

With a careless shrug, Violet turned her shoulder to the dark-haired Kuragin. She bent a brilliant smile to Count Tolstoy. Since making the first introduction, the Count had not spoken once.

"What is your opinion, Count Tolstoy?"

The Count jerked, as though pinched from a deep sleep. His pale eyes glowed nearly silver. They burned with energy, darting between Violet's barely-concealed anger and Prince Kuragin's amused expression. He swallowed. His lips parted as though ready to speak but no words came out.

The silence stretched out the seconds. Tolstoy cleared his throat and finally spread his hands wide. "You find me mute, Countess."

"Count Tolstoy and I are old acquaintances." Kuragin's rumbling voice sent the small hairs on Violet's neck on edge, like the brush of fur on bare skin. "He is accustomed to my, ah… _manners_."

The shorter man gave a bow of the head.

"It is true. I owe a great deal to his Highness."

Prince Kuragin made a noise, dismissing the Count's compliment. He did not sound embarrassed by the gratitude. Rather, he seemed to view the service as meaningless. Just as little as the men and women around Violet acknowledged the hovering presence of the multitude of footmen at their shoulders, so did the the Prince ignore his own service to the lesser noble. _Noblesse oblige_ , in its most ancient and feudal sense, was still a large part of the Russian aristocracy.

Reluctantly, Violet turned back to the knowing, mocking smile. "I am all curiosity."

"No, Countess. You mean, you are all astonishment."

As the shaft of truth struck home, he bent his head. To onlooking eyes, he seemed to lean in close, as though the pair of them were exchanging confidences, under the protection of Tolstoy's pale-eyed gaze.

"So, Lady Violet." His gaze held hers a long time, seconds too long before it slid down to trace her lips. Violet shut her open mouth sharply. "Before I decide I am insulted by your very fervent dislike of me, you will permit me to do _you_ a service."

"I don't want anything from you."

"But you will surely permit me to offer you some refreshments?"

A large bare palm materialised before Violet. Unlike most men of his class, Prince Kuragin did not wear evening gloves. His skin was darker than most, nearly Latin. The rich red of his uniform suited him just as the military cut flattered his broad shoulders and narrow waist. And he was aware of it. She was quite certain of that.

That made him perhaps more dangerous than Hepworth ever could be. She should not accept his offer. It was foolish in the extreme. She _could_ not.

She hesitated.

"I would not."

"W-w-what? I mean, I beg your pardon?"

"Refuse." Using his body as a shield, impervious to the presence of Count Tolstoy beside them, the Prince scooped up her free hand. Her bare left hand. His knuckles brushed the old gold silk of her skirts. Even through her petticoats, Violet felt the ghost-like touch.

With a gentle tug, he pulled her to her feet. He set her fingers on his arm. "You shall join us, Count Tolstoy."

He did not look once in the Count's direction.

Violet felt the eyes of the room on them as they traversed the Persian carpet. Some were speculative, some curious. More than a few were downright hostile. A petite brunette, surrounded by twittering friends, shot daggers into Violet's pale skin. Whisperings hushed around the gold-white walls like wind through willow strands. The words came too fast for Violet to hear what they said. It was easy, however, to draw conclusions. With the colour mantling in her cheeks, Violet gave thanks that none of her English acquaintances had joined her tonight. If Patrick heard…

"You will drink champagne?"

And with that, all thoughts of her husband vanished.

"No, thank you, your Highness. I do not like it."

"Not like champagne?" There was genuine bafflement in his voice now. When she turned to meet his eyes, Violet saw he was studying her as though wondering if this was just another round in their sparring match. "Why?"

She shrugged. Then, remembering her mother's frequent censures, cleared her throat. "The taste is too sweet."

"Then some tea. That is good, yes?"

They had drawn close to the refreshment tables. The thought of hot tea warming her parched throat sounded wonderful. Violet scanned the groaning tables for the familiar tea-sets and their accoutrements. Nothing.

"Tea would be wonderful, your Highness. If such a thing were available." She added dryly. Did Prince Kuragin intend to send to the kitchens for it? Surely the Prince would not be arrogant enough to order Princess Nashtya's servants about in the Princess's own home!

"Then so."

Violet looked in the direction of his hand. An enormous barrel in chased silver stood in pride of place at the centre of the table. Small glasses, beautifully carved with golden handles attached, surrounded the base. The only part that vaguely resembled a teapot sat perched on top of the wide monstrosity. Tiny and perfect, Violet doubted one could get a single decent cup from it.

The horror and confusion must have been evident on her face because the Prince rumbled a laugh. Plucking her hand from his arm, he tugged her a little closer. "So you disapprove of our Russian samovars?"

"You invited me for tea, your Highness."

"And so. Permit me."

Releasing her, he stepped forward. From the corner of the room, an elderly footman appeared. With a few curt words, the Prince indicated the pot. The footman bowed and reached high on his toes to retrieve the teapot smoking merrily on top of the samovar. He flicked her wrist, ladling a small layer of black liquid into the bottom of two glass cups. Making another bow, he moved past the Prince to the mouth of the barrel. Steaming water gushed from the tap into each cup until the black had lightened to a warm brown.

Finally, the footman bowed and handed the cup to Prince Kuragin. The tall Prince turned back to Violet.

"Your tea, Lady Violet." The saucer raised up.

Slowly, Violet reached out to take the proffered saucer, careful to avoid the dark fingers curled about the edge. Lifting the cup, she set the rim against her lips and blew gently to cool the tea. She sipped.

Almost immediately, she began to cough. The tea was ludicrously strong! Even after diluting it with water from that strange tap, it was far more bitter than anything she had tried before.

The footman burst out in a stream of Russian, appealing to the Prince. Violet knew nothing of the language, but she could easily imagine what the man was saying. He had done nothing wrong, the Prince himself had seen him! If the lady was not accustomed to Russian tea…!

Prince Kuragin cut the fulsome protests short with an impatient wave of his hand. "Lady Violet, you are not deranged?" He bent over her, as if to ascertain for himself she still breathed.

Violet tapped her throat. The last echoes of the coughing fit were dying away. "I assure you - _cough-_ your Highness, I did not travel all the way to St Petersburg to be defeated by a teapot!"

Suddenly, the dark face split into the boyish grin again. Teeth gleamed pale. The medalled chest shook with laughter. His laughter was like a warming fire. It heated her cheeks and then, Violet found she was laughing too, laughing with a wide smile, laughing like she had not laughed since she left the nursery.

They were so caught up in their laughter, neither noticed Count Tolstoy bow to a new member of their little group. The intruder slipped between Violet and the Prince with a quiet flick of her elegant pink skirts. Like a little cat, she threaded her arm under the Prince's elbow so her head nestled against the hollow of his shoulder.

" _Mon époux_ , the room is staring."

The Prince blinked. A tolerant smile curved the corners of his lips. He reached down and chucked the petite beauty under the chin. "Let them stare, _katyonak_. What do I mind?"

"Oh, you." She stood closer, patting the hand closest to her. Despite the kittenish coyness, the look she sent in Violet's direction was as cold as an ice bed. Diamonds glittered in the lustrous brown hair and across the deep swell of her bosom. The beauty turned her hand a little and Violet saw another diamond glitter on her finger.

The Prince's next words only confirmed the sinking cold that seeped into their meeting.

"Ira, permit me to introduce to you Lady Violet Crawley, Countess of Grantham. Lady Violet, permit me to introduce my wife, the Princess Irina Petrovna Lopukhin Kuragin."

The two women exchanged bobbed curtsies. The Princess Irina threw a patronising look over Violet's dress then lifted her eyes. Immediately, she gave a giggle and covered her mouth. With the left hand again, Violet noted. The wedding diamond flashed like fire on the Princess's white hand.

Pitchforks of hot anger dug into Violet's spine. But she would not give the jealous cat the satisfaction of seeing it. Drawing herself up straight, she raised one eyebrow. "Something amuses you, your Highness?"

"Oh, Countess, please, forgive me! I simply could not help myself." Over the white gloved fingers, the brown eyes gleamed. "In Russia, you see, hair like yours is only seen on Jews! It is so strange to be formally introduced to… To such a…"

That explained the strange looks Violet received from the company, the hurried whispers that followed in her wake. She opened her mouth, a hasty retort rising to her lips. But the Prince was too quick for her.

"That is not good, Irina." He frowned at his wife, no longer indulgent and playful. "Lady Violet is Nashtya's guest. You should not say such things."

The sly look fell from the Princess's face for a moment. She turned bruised eyes up to her frowning husband. "Of course, Igor. You are right." She agreed, her voice like that of a scolded child.

None of that, Violet observed, contained an apology to _her._

"It is an old superstition, my lady." This time, Prince Igor did not reach out to her. But when Violet raised her eyes to his, she was surprised to see concern crinkling in their depths. He scanned her face as if seeking… What?

Violet put away those thoughts. She pasted a smile on her lips. After all, it was not that she was so foolish as to contemplate… And with this man? No. The Countess of Grantham remained at home, secure and safe.

"If you will excuse me." She nodded to the royal couple. "I see Count Sumarokov is waiting for me."

"Kolya Sumarokov-!"

"But Igor, I see Roza and Tolik over there and I promised them that we would talk-"

"One moment, Irina."

A warm hand engulfed Violet's elbow. She turned and suddenly the Prince was much too close. She caught the scent of sandalwood from his shaved cheeks and wool and leather of his uniform. The lone curl fell between his eyebrows, dancing there, teasing her.

"You will visit the Princess again, I hope, Violet?"

"I don't know…" Flustered by his abruptness, Violet looked around. Count Nicholas was standing at the edge of his own group. The blue eyes were creased with confusion at the mismatched couple.

"My husband, Patrick, he… We must be introduced at Court."

"I will see you again."

He said it with the finality of a promise given. For the final time, he raised her fingers to his lips. The tips brushed by his kiss. Then Prince Kuragin returned to his wife.

It was only much later, on the carriage ride home to her husband, that Violet realised Igor Kuragin had called her by her own name.

* * *

 **Happy New Year! All the best for 2016!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Winter Rose**

* * *

Violet slept late the next morning.

Patrick was just finishing his third piece of toast when his wife appeared at the breakfast room door. Despite a touching of rouge along her pale cheeks, nothing could disguise the hollows under Violet's eyes. After returning from the Princess Nashtya's _soirée_ , she had paced the floor of her bedchamber until well into the night. She only managed to settle to bed once the click of the door on the other side of the wall told her Patrick, too, had returned.

The Earl of Grantham glanced at his pale wife from over the rim of his English tea. "Good morning, Violet."

Violet set a smile on her face. "Good morning, Patrick."

She took her seat at the table, opposite her husband. The white linen cloth was laden down with a variety of breads and preserves. On the plate beside Patrick, the golden smears of fried eggs stood mute testament to his own preferences. Violet plucked a thin slice of bread from the nearby board. After such a late night, dry bread and tea were all she could face this morning.

"Did you enjoy yourself last night?"

Violet nearly dropped her knife.

She looked up quickly. Patrick's expression was its customary polite mask. He had abandoned the remains of his breakfast. Instead, he sat back in the high, carved chair. His tea-cup was a steeple between his hands. Mahogany-dark eyes watched her from above the white porcelain.

"You knew?" She could not keep the disbelief from her voice.

He smiled. "About your jaunt to the Princess Sumarokov? Yes. Your little pet, Count Nicholas, sent a note after me. He imagined I would be concerned."

"How foolish." Violet bit back, needled by his tone.

"Very punctilious." He corrected her. "Well? Did you?"

"I did. It was diverting… More so than remaining here." She did not add the word _alone_. But it rang clear in the eloquent silence.

"I am sorry for that."

"You're _sorry_?"

"Yes, my dear wife." Patrick took a sip of his tea. "It had not been my intention to exclude you. I would have preferred for you to join me. But the Princes… Ah, they wished to experience delights in Petersburg that are not fit for a lady's eyes."

"I see."

"I hope so." He shrugged. "Dull enough, truth be told."

"My sympathies." Violet could not keep the scathing tone from her voice. What made Patrick imagine she wished to hear about his visits to the disreputable women of St Petersburg? Whether it was taken in the company of the Prince of Wales or not?

"We are not all blessed with the power to fascinate young diplomats." Was Patrick teasing her? She had not know that levity from her husband since Rosamund was born. "Do you visit the Princess again today?"

"She and I have arranged to go driving in the Field of Mars. It is some kind of park, I imagine."

"That would be well." He spoke quietly, half to himself. "The Princess is a friend of the Tsar's mistress, I believe. It would be useful for you to cultivate her friendship."

"Yes, I fancy it should be _enjoyable_ as well. The Princess is a well-read woman, with an excellent grasp of English."

"Small mercies then."

"And you, Patrick?"

He gave another, strange, half-smile before pushing back his chair. He strolled down the length of the table towards his wife. "I am summoned to the royal presence again. It seems being an earl is not sufficient reason to be accepted as one of his Highness's groomsmen. I must be fitted for an order as well."

"A Russian order? Which one?"

"Lord knows. Saint something or other. I will find out later." He paused and looked down at her. His face softened, the sardonic line of his lips mellowing.

Violet nearly flinched as the Earl gently cupped her cheek. His thumb stroked along the high slant of her cheekbone as though soothing a dog's ruffled fur.

"Do not stay too long with the Princess, Violet. Particularly if you do not feel equal to it." He said quietly. "You look tired this morning."

The unexpected consideration had Violet widening her eyes. Before she could reply, a loud knock sounded at the breakfast room door.

Patrick pulled back his hand. "Enter!"

The butler supplied with their accommodation entered and bowed. His enormous black beard brushed the lapels of his immaculate jacket. "Forgive the intrusion, Lord Grantham. A messenger arrived."

"For me?" All business, Patrick brushed invisible crumbs from the front of his waistcoat. "I will take him in the drawing room, Arkady."

"Forgive me, Lord Grantham, but messenger is for _Lady_ Grantham."

"For me?"

Patrick glanced at his wife, one eyebrow raised. "Well, you had best show him in then, Arkady."

"Very good, my lord." For the first time in his appearance, the butler showed some hesitation. "There is parcel as well, my lord."

"Yes, everything. Show everything in. Quickly, man!"

The butler bowed and entered the room, holding back the door as he did so. After him trailed two more servants. They were dressed in plain livery and staggered as they walked. When Violet saw their burden, she was not surprised.

On an enormous silver tray rested a large, bulbous canister. Perched above the swaying creation was a tiny silver tea-pot. A third footman followed on behind, clutching a wooden crate to his chest. A wooden chest which not doubt contained a set of engraved glass cups.

It was a samovar.

The butler, Arkady, approached Violet. A small card rested on his salver. "This arrived with the samovar, my lady."

The seal was plain, the paper unmarked by any family crest. Violet broke the card open and scanned the single line of the message.

 _Now, you may practice before we meet again._

It was unsigned, even by an initial. Yet Violet knew, as surely as though he had scrawled his name all over it.

Prince Igor Kuragin.

"It seems your swain has deep pockets, my dear wife."

Her heart flew to the depths of her stomach. She turned the card over in a foolish attempt to hide the contents. There was, surely, no possible way for Patrick to have heard of her conversation with the Prince?

The Earl had picked up one of the glass cups the footmen were busily unpacking. He lifted the delicate workmanship to his eyes. "I thought Sumarokov was a younger son."

Violet's fingers shook with relief. "Sumarokov. Yes. I suppose his father must be more generous than we thought."

"I approved of his lessons on board the ship. But this is taking it a little too far." Patrick set the glass cup down again on the sideboard. "I'll drop a hint in his ear, Violet. I know these Russians are generous but we cannot be made look ridiculous."

"No!" Violet could only just imagine poor Count Nicholas's confused face. "No, Patrick. There's no need. I will do it."

 _I most certainly will._ She resolved, tucking the impudent note into the sash at her waist. Prince Kuragin had another thought coming if he imagined she was impressed by samovars at dawn!


	11. Chapter 11

**Winter Rose**

* * *

 _"Not all who make love, make marriages."_

\- Russian proverb

* * *

The Princess Nashtya sat back against the fur-lined seats with a sigh. It was a similar sound to that of a gourmande after a particularly fine meal.

"Ah! It is an inestimable pleasure to speak with you, Lady Violette." She smiled at the younger woman opposite from under the furred brim of her _kubanka_ hat. "There are so few in Petersburg acquainted with the work of Monsieur Dickens or Monsieur Elliott. The French, you understand, have such a cultural…" She made a hard wringing motion.

Violet smoothed down the warm blankets the Princess's coach driver set about their legs. Unlike the majority of her contemporaries, the Princess disdained the protection of a closed carriage. Winter or summer, when the weather was fine, she drove about the Field of Mars in an open-topped coach. The eccentricity confirmed her position as one of the foremost hostesses in the royal city.

"I had noticed that many people speak French here." She observed, glancing about at the other carriages gliding sedately along the cleared paths.

"But of course. French is the language of culture and sophistication. All aristo children have a French governess. Russian is for the servants." The Princess made a dismissive gesture, typical of the Russian nobility when discussing their servants. "Some, like myself, speak English. Others prefer Italian or German. We are multi-lingual in Petersburg, Lady Violette."

"Indeed. I observed last night…" Violet set her lips abruptly at the shrewd look thrown her way by the Princess.

"Ah, last night. Yes." A sly look stole into the laughing blue eyes. "I noticed you spoke quite much with Igor Sergeyevich." She gave a theatrical little sigh. "Such a handsome boy! And such excellent English!"

Violet felt the heat mount in her cheeks. A surge of annoyance made her fingers bite into the warm furs over her lap. She did not need the Princess to assume that her guess was correct!

"Prince Kuragin is… Persistent."

The Princess smiled wider.

"Poor Igor! He has never met an Englishwoman before. I do not think he was prepared for it."

"Neither was I." The words slipped out unguarded. Violet coloured up again. "I mean, in England, a gentleman does not-"

"Seek to seduce?"

"Monopolise the conversation." Violet kept her voice firm. The last thing she needed to mar her time in St Petersburg was a host of scurrilous rumours.

The Princess covered her smiling mouth with her glove. "Yes, Igor is _very_ good at that. I have heard much."

"But I have not heard much about this park, Princess." Violet made a deliberate effort to steer the conversation away from the smiling Prince. He had lingered in her mind long enough the night before, like the tang of his dark Russian tea. "It is very popular in Petersburg?"

The Princess shrugged. "The Pavlovsky Guards have their barracks here. Sometimes they perform drill and other military parades. Of course, then it is quite crowded. Young girls, you understand. Me, I enjoy the prospect more than Alexander Park and it is less crowded than Alexander Gardens."

Violet laughed. "Russians enjoy the name Alexander, I think!"

Her strategy worked. The Princess gave a surprisingly girlish giggle and clapped her hands. " _Oui_ , it is true! Even today, our Little Father, he is Alexander. But- Kuzmich! _Ostanovite karetu!_ "

The Princess snapped up in her seat. Her eyes fixed on an approaching carriage rolling sedately down the wide path. She gripped hold of the carriage strap, heedless of the expensive furs falling about her feet to the carriage floor. "Katya! _Chérie_!"

"Nashtya! _Bonjour!_ " A slim woman, trimmed in mink and yellow velvet waved in return. As she drew closer, Violet could see she was astonishingly beautiful. Around Violet's own age, Katya's chestnut curls were caught up in an elegant knot. The simple chignon drew the eye to her heavy, sulky mouth and the fine arches of her cheeks and eyebrows. Although she was several years Princess Nashtya's junior, the two women clasped hands across the carriage path with the confidence of old friends.

"Katya, this is Lady Violette Crawley, an English Countess. Violette is here for the wedding."

"Then this is your first time in Russia, Lady Violet?" Inquisitive eyes opened wide.

"Yes, ah…"

"Ah, forgive me, Violette! Please, allow me to present Princess Katharina Mikhailovna Dolgorukov."

The Princess kept silent on Katherina Dolgorukov's scandalous relationship with the Tsar. While admirable, it was unnecessary. Violet had already been told of the outrageous Dolgorukov princess by four different people, not least her own husband.

The other woman inclined her head. "But, of course, as a friend of Nashtya, I shall hope you will call me Katya."

"But why are you in this other carriage, _chérie_?" Princess Nashtya hustled over to the opposite end of her seat, patting the leather expectantly. "Come, come, come! We will talk, yes? Violette must learn all there is to know about our Petersburg."

"You have chosen the perfect conduit, Lady Violet." Katya unleashed her parasol in a jaunty twirl. "Nashtya knows everybody in Petersburg, even if they do not want to be known."

"Oh really, Katya."

"It is true! Why, do you remember when Tonya Pavelovna came here to escape her husband with that Guards captain? What was his name?"

"Maximilian Majewski." Nashtya shrugged at Violet. "Polish."

"Ah, so understandable. Poles have the souls of poets, I always think."

"Katya, _myshka_ , you are being ridiculous. And poor Tonya looked ridiculous when her husband appeared at the door of their apartments. With a pistol!"

"And who knew this first?" The brunette countered. "Larissa Zykov was green with envy!"

"You should know, Violette." Nashtya leaned forward and clasped her hands around Violet's gloves. "That we Russians adore nothing more than to discuss each other until every secret is out in the open."

Violet laughed. "I don't think this is a uniquely Russian trait, Princess! In London, the aristocracy have nothing to do all day but discuss bloodlines."

" _Vraiment_? In the home of Monsieur Dickens?" Nashtya shook her head. "This, I cannot believe."

"Nashtya adores Monsieur Dickens. All English authors." Katya rolled her liquid eyes. "You must come to her _infamous_ literary discussions, Violet. You, at least, will understand the topic at hand."

"I look forward to it. If my husband agrees."

"It is done! And I will speak to Sasha who will speak to your so-amiable Prince who will speak to your husband, I have no doubt. Then we can be certain you will attend." Katya gave a shrug. "Such complicated rounds we poor creatures must go."

To hear the Tsar Alexander II, Emperor of All the Russias addressed simply as Sasha still sounded faintly bizarre. But Katya was so warm and friendly, Violet could not hide her own laughter.

"Then I will be look forward to the occasion."

"And I," Princess Nashtya gave a significant wink to the English Countess. "Will be certain to invite Igor Kuragin again."

"What is this? What has Igor done now?"

"Absolutely nothing." Violet cut in quickly. Katya raised her eyebrows at the vehement tone. She turned to Nashtya in mute question.

Her lips twitching with amusement, Nashtya released Violet's hands to lay her grip along Katya's skirts. "Your Igor has done nothing but be himself, _myshka_."

"Hah!" In an echo of the Prince Kuragin, Katya tossed back her luxurious skein of hair. "So little says so much. Ah, forgive me, Violet." She caught Violet's frozen expression. "Igor and I, we know each other well. He is my big cousin. It is through his father, Sergei Ivanovitch Kuragin, that I was able to go to the Smolny Institute for Noble Maidens. Even after… Well. Igor and I, we are good friends still."

"It is unfortunate Igor's wife is not blessed with the same generosity of spirit." Nashtya's voice grew tart. She jerked her chin upwards. The two younger women turned to follow the direction of her gaze.

Turning down the riding path, perched on an enormous black stallion, the Princess Irina Kuragin was unmistakable. She was dressed to befit the military ethos of the park, in a severely-cut riding habit sprigged with gold epaulets at the shoulders. A vivacious little hat was perched on her sable hair. The stallion was restive, snatching at the bit and tossing his head. Still, Violet had to admire the skill with which the Princess controlled the beast.

Nashtya grunted under her breath. "If she were not Igor's wife, I swear on the bones of Saint Andrew the holy Apostle, I would not let that woman over my threshold."

"Nashtya, please. Irina means no harm."

"Does she not? Do you think I do not know where those rumours about you and those bankers began? _Mordieu_!"

"Hush! She comes this way."

Princess Nashtya folded her lips into a tight line. There was a general flurry in the carriage as bonnets and hats were set straight and wrinkles smoothed from gowns. Violet felt her stomach contract under the iron ribs of her corset. Irritably, she brushed the sensation aside. She was not a soldier on the eve of battle. She had no reason to feel that way.

Nevertheless, she straightened in her seat as the Princess minced her stallion up alongside the waiting carriage.

The petite brunette nodded without a smile. "Nashtya Fillipovna. Katharina Mikhailovna. And the English… Countess. _Bonjour_."

" _Bonjour_ , Irina Petrovna." Katya's voice was dry as gravel. "You are well?"

"Of course. I am always well." The Princess did not return the courtesy of asking after Katya's health. She reached forward to pat the trembling black neck. Her eyes scanned Violet with bored disdain. "I am surprised to see you here, Countess. But I suppose you find Russian company indispensable."

Violet blinked. She knew that the Princess Irina had taken a dislike to her last night. But she had not expected such naked hostility so soon. And hostility it was. The full, sulky mouth was turned down in a scowl. Her gaze raked Violet's sable furs as one would a stray dog who had wandered into the parlour. It was ridiculous. It was unreasonable.

Well. There was only one answer to that. Violet's father had rarely played a part in his daughters' lives but he had left Violet with one important piece of advice: When reason fails, use force.

Violet bared her teeth in a battle-ready smile.

"Your highness was good enough to enlighten some of my ignorance of Russian life last night. I consider this as continuing my education. The Princesses," She gave Katya and Nashtya a warm smile. "Showed true Russian hospitality when they obliged me."

"I am only sorry we could not bring your so-charming little children." Nashtya put in. Somehow, Violet did not think it was a throwaway remark.

Nashtya reached across the carriage to take Violet's hand in a show of solidarity. "Violette has two children. A daughter and a lovely little boy." Her eyes lingered for a second on the nipped in splendour of the Princess's tiny waistline.

"How matronly, Countess." Irina's voice was tight. "Truly, I do not know how you can bear it. I would hate to risk my figure. I would not fit any of my gowns or my jewels."

With deliberate carelessness, she brushed her fingers across a filigree brooch in the shape of a bouquet of flowers. The petals were picked out in rubies, the centre in diamonds. It was glorious and expensive. Just the present a doting husband might bestow on his wife.

None of the three women in the carriage could ignore the obvious invitation.

"What a beautiful piece, Irina Petrovna." Katya remarked in a polite tone. "Was it a gift?"

"Yes." A small smile danced on the Princess's lips. "Igor gave it to me this morning."

The same morning that he sent Violet the silver samovar. It was as clear as a slap in the face.

"My cousin has you spoilt." Katya's voice did not suggest that it was a compliment.

"It is true. Igor is very good to me." Irina nodded. A soft smile settled on her face. "But you must excuse me. I am to lunch with my aunt and cannot be late."

"Of course." Nashtya's voice skimmed politeness. "Please, do not let us detain you."

"Good day, Nashtya. Katharina Mikhailovna. Lady Violet Crawley." The last name dripped from the pink lips like water from an icicle.

"Princess."

"Little cat." Nashtya muttered as the petite beauty kicked her stallion into a canter and moved away. Neither Katya nor Violet disagreed.

Not prepared to relinquish her ire, Princess Nashtya glanced about the empty carriage path. Seeing it empty, with nobody nearby, she spat out her disgust. "Do you hear her? 'I do not want to risk my figure'. Calling us cows for being able to do what she can not!"

"You baited her, Nashtya. You know…"

"All I know is there has been six years of marriage with nothing to show for it." Nashtya's voice was hard.

"Prince Kuragin does not seem worried." Violet kept her comments light. Nashtya's crude view of the marriage was nothing unusual, even if it was harsh. In a world where everything depended on a son to continue the noble line, the failure to produce an heir was a cause of concern to everyone connected to the title. "It was a beautiful gift."

"Pah. Irina leads Igor about by the nose. She cuts with those little claws and he laughs."

"He enjoys it. What man would not?" Katya shrugged. "She is jealous for him but she knows he is not serious in any of his _amours_. So she bides her time because he will return. I know my cousin. It will take too much to change him."

"True love!" Nashtya gave a laugh. "Ah, I would give much to see Igor Sergeyevich in love!"

"Is he incapable of it?" Violet laughed.

"You _should_ ask, would he be permitted!" Katya quipped.

"No." In one of her mercurial changes of mood, Nashtya swooped from giggling to stoney seriousness. Her fingers made a hard sign of the cross across her stomach and shoulders. She gave a quick bob of the head. Violet was reminded of the soulful icons decorating the walls of the Princess's palace. "I pray every day to St Andrew for intercession. It is not right. Igor is a good boy. He flits from distraction to pleasure like a child and he does not hurt anyone. But he finds it difficult to be a good man."

She bowed her head for a moment as though lost in thought. When she raised her head again, her voice was steadier even thought her round chin trembled.

"But I forget myself. You, Violette, did not join me to witness an old woman's fears. Come. You must relate to me the dress you will wear to the Winter Palace for your presentation. Now we have Katya here, we can be certain not to mistake ourselves in the fashions!"


	12. Chapter 12

**Winter Rose**

* * *

 _"...sometimes one feels freer speaking to a stranger than to people one knows. Why is that?"  
"Probably because a stranger sees us the way we are, not as he wishes to think we are." _

-Carlos Ruiz Zafón, _The Shadow of the Wind_

* * *

There was absolutely no reason to be nervous.

Violet Crawley ran her hand down the boned front of her court dress. The action did nothing to soothe what felt like a bevy of Scot Guards dancing a horn pipe in her stomach.

Glancing to the side, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirrored glass opposite. From the outside, everything appeared calm. More than calm. Her red hair was caught up in a knot of heavy curls, anchored in place by the Grantham diadem. More diamonds encircled her throat, glowing like white fire against the pale skin of her exposed breast. The elaborate Russian court dress clung to her shoulders, skimming the top of her bosom before opening into a rich bodice of gold and red embroidery. The heavy sleeves split away mid-arm, revealing the rest of the Grantham diamond parure: two cuff bracelets of old gold and diamonds clasped about her wrists.

She looked cool, collected and perfectly coiffed. It was a pity she felt ready to bolt for the nearest door.

"Violet?"

She blinked herself back to the present. Patrick, austere in his Grenadiers dress uniform, raised his eyebrows.

"Violet, are you quite all right?"

The Countess of Grantham shook her head free of ghosts. A smile settled on her lips. "Of course, Patrick."

"We have been given the nod."

Violet glanced towards the footman, stationed at the door of the ante-chamber. Like his surroundings, the footman was magnificent. Garbed in the style of an earlier time, he shone with gold buttons and embroidered stockings. A white wig, powdered and primed, inclined in their direction.

It was time to make their entrance.

Violet felt eighteen again. Eighteen, a debutante, and terrified to make the least slip.

She laid her fingers lightly on the black broadcloth. Bending to the side, she gave the train of her gown a final shake the set it right. Then she lifted her smile to her husband's face.

"Shall we?"

The footman sprang to attention. With a click of his heels, he bowed to the couple. The double doors opened.

The long stretch of the audience chamber stretched in front of them. Every face in the room turned in their direction.

Violet swallowed.

 _For goodness, sake, Violet! Try to show_ some _little bit of grace. If it is possible for you._

Her mother's reprimands echoed in her head. The hiss before she entered the Queen's drawing room at St James's palace. The weight of ostrich feathers on her head, pressing down on her forehead and giving her the headache. The fear that she would be unwanted, discarded; the ruination of her family's hopes for a fine marriage. A marriage to save them from being just another family of impoverished gentry, washed up and useless, the dross of society.

 _I will not trip. I will not trip._

"Violet."

The warning hiss and tug on her arm pulled her forward. A thousand curious faces turned in their direction. At the end of the grand hall, a raised platform held two thrones, towering above the crowds. An enormous cloth-of-gold canopy shaded the gilded thrones from the glare of a hundred crystal chandeliers. Beneath it, the Tsar and Tsarina of all the Russias sat ramrod straight. The great nobility of Russia stretched on either side. Bloodlines that reached back to the darkness of Muscovy and the ancient kings. Wealth that made the Dukes and Earls of England look like petty merchants. Interspersed between the silk and lace, Orthodox priests stood swathed in black, heavy beards reaching to their chests. All those gazes, turned towards her.

Waiting for her to trip.

 _Don't fall. Don't fall._

Violet lifted her head. One foot stepped in front of the other. Her heart might hammer like a blacksmith's forge. Her hands inside the white gloves may be clammy with nerves. But she was not that girl anymore, stuttering down the Queen's drawing room towards a scowling monarch in white taffeta.

Or at least, she could pretend.

"The Earl and Countess of Grantham."

A murmur rippled through the assembled princes and barons. Fans flicked up, whispers behind the painted leaves. An equerry stepped forward to murmur in the Tsar's imperial ear. Near the front of the hall, the English party waited. Most of them already wore their new orders proudly around their necks or on their chests. In order of precedence, the Earl of Grantham was the last man to be presented to the Russian Court. If he noticed this indignity to his honour, he did not betray it, not by a muscle.

Finally, they reached the appointed place, marked on the polished floor in white chalk. Patrick disengaged his arm from Violet's grip. He bowed, from the waist. Violet sank to the floor in a curtsey.

Another murmur, of approval this time. Patrick rose from his bow. He stepped forward until he reached the second chalk mark.

Violet's legs ached. She could not hold the awkward dip much longer. The old tricks sprang to mind. Extend the back leg to grant one better balance. Count to ten, slow and steady. Then rise and, for the love of God, _don't_ wobble.

The imperious face of the Princess Kuragin appeared in her mind. That sneer, the dismissive shrug. How she would laugh if Violet made a fool of herself in front of all these people!

That thought alone was enough to set steel in her knees.

By the time Violet rose to her feet once more, the ceremony was nearly concluded. The Tsar leaned forward to pin the red and black cross on Patrick's dress uniform. The order of St Vladimir, second class. He clapped Patrick on the shoulder. The tips of his enormous moustache curled upwards. Was that a smile?

Even from this distance, Violet could sense the tension running through her husband. He wanted so badly to make a good impression. She felt a pang of sympathy for him. If they had been anywhere else, if they had been in England, she might have risked a smile of support. Cold, Patrick may be. But he was still her husband. The vulnerability he so seldom showed made her protective of him. It, perhaps, had saved their marriage more than once.

But it was rare that either of them let down the walls that shielded their hearts…

A round of applause clattered the room. Violet looked up. The Tsar smacked a kiss on the Earl's pale cheeks and then a final one again, in the Russian manner. A definite smile was on the imperial face. Even the Tsarina's severe face, lined from the pain of her constant illness, had softened with the end of the formalities. The strict lines of nobility broke and filled St George's hall in miss-mash of titles and groups.

"Violet?"

Violet turned at the touch on her elbow. "Katya!"

The Princess smiled and slipped her hand through Violet's elbow. "It is very grand, yes?"

"Immensely. I feel like a little mouse here, with all these high ceilings."

"And all the cats around as well."

Violet let her eyes drift over the assembled crowds. More than one group put their heads together at the sight of the scandalous Princess Dolgorukov and the English Countess. Gossip dripped from wizened lips and muttered behind gilded cuffs. Cats indeed.

"But your husband, he is here with you today, I think? And he will attend the ball later?"

"Of course." Violet replied dryly. "He would regard it as his duty."

"Perhaps I should claim a dance from him." The brown eyes twinkled with fun. "Would that not set the cats scratching?"

"No doubt he would regard that too as his duty."

"To step forward and think of England? That is the phrase, I believe?"

"Something similar to that." The words of her mother on her wedding day slid to Violet's mind. Violet banished it with a smile. "Patrick does not often care to dance."

"Even with a lovely wife?"

Most especially with a lovely _wife_.

"It is not often done in England. Amongst married men."

"Nashtya will be horrified! She loves to dance almost as much as she loves your English books."

The confrontation between Patrick and the impulsive Princess was too ludicrous to imagine. Violet could just see the outrage painted on Patrick's face at receiving Nasthya's extravagant embrace. It was one thing to be kissed on the cheek by the Tsar of Russia but by a mere Princess…!

"I think Nashtya will be very disappointed in Englishmen if she meets my husband."

"What is this? Am I maligned in my absence?"

The Earl of Grantham interrupted the two women without a thought. The cross of St Vladimir glittered against the black broadcloth of his uniform. He nodded politely to the Princess.

"Violet, you will introduce me to the Princess."

It was not a request.

"Patrick, please let me introduce Prince Katharina Mikhailovna Dolgorukov. Katya, Patrick Crawley, Earl of Grantham."

" _Enchantée_ , Lord Grantham. And my congratulations on your order."

"Yes." Patrick's smile resembled a grimace. "Second class."

Katya's eyebrows creased in confusion, even as her smile remained pinned in place. "But, of course. You understand. It is inconceivable for a foreigner to be awarded the first class medal."

"My husband is always aware of the duties to his rank."

"And my wife is ever solicitous to my vanity." His smile was as barbed as her own. Violet stiffened in surprise as a hand rested on the small of her back.

Katya glanced from one Crawley to the other, the frown not leaving her face. Then she shook her head, as though dispelling unwelcome thoughts.

"I was inquiring of your wife, Lord Grantham, if you would attend the ball this evening."

"I understand that is the Prince of Wales's intention."

"Of course, where the Prince should go…" Violet muttered.

"Precisely, my dear wife." The smile twisted in Patrick's pale face. He looked down at his Countess, brown eyes sharp. "And you will be at my side. As loyal to me as I am to the Prince."

"You did not tell me how devoted your husband is, Violet!" Violet heard Katya's laugh break over them. "It is unusual, no?"

"Yes, it is."

"Well, we cannot let young Sumarokov get any more bright ideas, can we, dear wife?"

Was that a note of anger under the smooth politeness?

"Sumarokov?" Poor Katya now looked utterly cast at sea. She glanced around, as though seeking rescue from the storm raging between the Earl and his Countess. "I am lost, Lord Grantham."

"Patrick enjoys talking in riddles, Katya." Violet stepped forward. The heavy hand at her back fell away. She linked her arm in the Princess's elbow and smiled. "Tell me, is there one room in these thousands where I might be able to freshen up?"

"But of course. I would appreciate that too. If you will excuse us, Lord Grantham."

Patrick bowed. Katya curtsied once again, an abbreviated dip. With a side smile to Violet, the two women turned away through the crowds.

"Violet." Katya bent her head close to Violet's ear. "You did not tell me your husband was in love with you."

"An English nobleman in love with his wife? Surely, you have read enough Dickens to know better than that, Katya."

The two women slipped into a small ante-chamber, one of dozens scattered around the main audience hall. For once, the room was empty, although the lingering scent of perfume told of the crowds that only recently filled it. Violet sank onto the gold and white _chaise-lounge_ with a sigh of relief.

Katya examined her hair in the mirror. Without a pause, she continued.

"Perhaps. Perhaps he does not know it himself."

"I think I know my husband better than you, Katya." The words came out a little curt. Violet could still not bring herself to terms with the frankness so many Russians enjoyed.

The Princess shrugged. "Perhaps. But I do not think so." She paused. In the reflection of the mirror, she turned to the woman she so recently called friend. "I do not think you even know your own heart."

Violet opened her mouth to retort. But for once, no ready answer sprang to her lips.


	13. Chapter 13

**Winter Rose**

* * *

 _The Nicholas Hall, the Winter Palace Enfilade_

 _20th January, 1874_

* * *

"What a lovely couple."

It was the main comment of the evening. Violet looked on the dance floor. The young Grand Duchess spun around the room in the arms of her ducal fiancé. Her delicate cheeks were flushed with the exercise and the rapt attention of her partner. They were the focus of the evening's entertainment and they opened the ball, even before the Tsar and Tsarina took to the floor.

Watching them, it made one believe that fairy-tales occasionally came true. Not even the righteous disapproval of her Majesty, Queen Victoria, had prevented the Duke from winning his Russian bride.

Violet turned to the source of the observation. An officer in the train of Prince Frederick of Prussia, he bristled with the hauteur of his race. The dignified outside was betrayed, however, by a soft gleam of sentimentality in his eyes. He sighed again.

"Ach, so. It is in good order. And love is strange."

Before Violet could agree or disagree, the officer inhaled the remainder of his champagne in a single gulp. He reached out and with a clang set the now-empty glass on a passing tray. Without a second glance, he turned and stumped into the milling crowds lining the ballroom walls.

"Strange fellow."

Violet glanced up at her husband. Patrick had not changed from earlier in the evening. Like many of the men present, he was still dressed in his uniform, the red and black cross bouncing on his lapel. He paused in raising his champagne glass half-way to his lips, caught by her look. The glass lowered a little.

"Is something the matter?"

"N-no." _Could Katya be right?_ Violet wondered. Beneath his polished coldness, did Patrick actually care for her as more than a convenient hostess and broodmare? The last five years of marriage said differently.

Patrick rarely approached her to share her bed, not since Rosamund was born. She knew he was unfaithful. She could hardly be unaware since his mistress paraded around their same social circle. When they lived together, it seemed they existed in a constant state of barbed truce. He gave her every luxury yet deprived her of the simple comfort of stability.

Yet in the beginning…

She only recognised it now. Looking back, from the position of experience. He had been kind then. Solicitous, even, in his own way. She still had the ring in the shape of a snake he had given her on the morning after their wedding. It was in the same style as that given to the Queen by the late Prince Albert. The emerald head of the snake curled around her finger to consume its own tail.

"A symbol of our vows to each other, Violet." Patrick had whispered as he slipped it on her shaking finger. "Eternal."

She had been too shocked at the time to listen properly. Shocked and sore. The facts of marriage had come as an unwelcome surprise. During their engagement, Patrick had confined his attentions to a simple peck on the lips, always under the discreet supervision of her parents or her chaperone. None of her mother's oblique references to duty and endurance had prepared her for the embarrassment or the pain that night. And while it did become easier, it was with a certain relief that her nineteen-year-old self realised that falling pregnant meant Patrick would abstain from calling on her for at least nine months.

Was she as much at fault for their estrangement as he? Hadn't she welcomed his absence? Had she made any effort to mend relations between them after that one awful day?

A touch to her elbow. Violet jerked. The diamonds jangled in her ears, echoing her jumping pulse

An imperial equerry stepped back from her husband's shoulder. His gaze fixed somewhere in the middle-distance, as blank and emotionless as the rest of his face. In contrast, Patrick's lips were compressed in a thin line of excitement. His brown eyes glimmered against pale cheeks.

"My dear. His Imperial Majesty, Tsar Alexander has asked us to attend upon him and the Tsarina."

Violet's eyes widened. She had not taken Katya's promises to speak to the Tsar seriously. Who would? Yet, it seemed her friend had been in earnest.

"Ah." She raised her hand, laid it on Patrick's arm. The jaunty trills of the mazurka echoing from the small orchestra in the gallery were suddenly very loud. At the appearance of an imperial equerry, a ring of silence had fallen on the surrounding crowd.

"I suppose it would not be good taste to leave his Imperial Majesty waiting."

Did a smile flicker across Patrick's face?

Crowds pressed into the walls of the Nicholas ballroom to make room for them. Dozens of eyes followed the progress of the Earl and Countess of Grantham. The news of the unexpected honour had swept through the ballroom like a hot summer wind.

Nerves tingled once more in Violet's stomach as they approached the imperial couple, sitting in state surrounded by their grandest guests. The Prince of Wales was to the left of the Tsarina, his black frock coat already unbuttoned from the good dinner. The Tsarevitich, Nicholas, stood to his father's right.

Several feet from the Imperial presence, the Earl and his countess stopped. Patrick took a deep bow. Violet sank to a curtsy.

"Rise, Lord Grantham. Lady Grantham."

The accent was hoarse, rasping along the words. Violet rose to a stand. She lifted her eyes to the square face, dominated by jutting brows and a bristling moustache. The Tsar favoured military uniforms and tonight he dressed in the green and cream of his own Guards regiment. A dozen orders glittered in a row on his chest. On his right hand, tapping impatiently on the arm of his throne, a miniature of the Russian ring of State glowed.

Hard eyes studied the couple. Then they gleamed, as sudden as an eagle striking.

"I have been informed by my English cousin that you are a man most knowledgeable, Lord Grantham."

Patrick made a grimace of dismissal, a courtier's graceful motion. "I try to please, your imperial majesty."

"Prince Edward, he tells me you know more about the breeding of dogs than any man alive."

Violet did not need to glance sideways to know that Patrick's shoulders had stiffened under his tunic, that his right index finger tapped against his thigh in irritation. Much as he loved his labradors, Patrick had no desire to build his international reputation on them. "His highness is most generous."

The jeering gleam relaxed a little. After his one bolt of mockery, the Tsar was content. "My cousin also informs me that you have a gift of clear sight for foreign relations. I find this interesting."

This time, Patrick's bow of acknowledgement came easier and with more grace. "I am flattered by his Highness's words."

"My foreign minister, Prince Gorchakov, he too is a man who enjoys shooting. He is famous for his parties, I believe. Though I cannot say why. The last time I attended one, I came away with only a bunch of feathers!" The medals shook at the Tsar's sudden laugh. Around, like the clatter of birds' wings, the company laughed in unison. None louder, Violet noticed, than the short man with an upturned face and spectacles. Prince Gorchakov, she presumed.

"Your imperial highness is a fine shot." The Tsarina's smile was as pale as her sickly face. "I still have some of those feathers your Majesty gifted me after that shoot." Her English was more stilted than her husband, and pleasingly accented in the German manner. She laid a long-fingered hand on the Tsar's sleeve. The heavy jewels in her many rings glittered in the candlelight.

"You are too kind, my dear." The Tsar patted her hand. Violet was surprised to see the genuine affection in his eyes as he turned to his hollow-cheeked wife. "Someday I hope to bring you the entire bird!"

"For that, your Majesty will have to join us on the shoot." The short man, Prince Gorchakov, offered his suggestion with a bow.

"You will host one soon, I believe, yes?" Not waiting for a nod of agreement from the Prince, the Tsar swept on. "After the wedding. You will attend, Lord Grantham. Then we may play judgement on the best of your two talents."

"I- I would be honoured, your Majesty."

"It is agreed." His duty done to the husband, the Tsar turned his piercing eyes on Violet. He condescended to nod at her. "The beauteous Lady Grantham. We have heard many interesting things."

A compliment or a criticism? Violet took the gamble and curtsied in acknowledgement. "Your Imperial Majesty."

"I am told this is your first time in Russia."

"Yes, it is."

"But you appreciate our Russian culture. And our traditions of hospitality."

So Katya _had_ been speaking to her 'Sasha'. "It is true, your Majesty. Although," Violet took a second gamble. Her lips curved in a smile. "I had a rather unfortunate encounter with Russian tea."

"Ah, so!" The Tsar smacked his leg with enjoyment. Another obedient ripple of laughter went around the group. "The English, I find, cannot stomach our black Russian teas! You prefer, what is the name…?"

"Lapsang Su-Chong?" The Tsarevitch ventured in a hesitant voice.

His father waved him away with a quick cut of his hand. "And our Russian winters? What do you think of those?"

"Very different from England, your Majesty. More sleighs and fewer holly boughs."

The Prince of Wales gave a low chuckle. "Your Majesty will understand that Lady Grantham's sharp tongue is feared the length and breadth of London."

"We shall endeavour to escape, Prince Edward. Tell me, Lady Grantham, do you enjoy winters?"

Did she? In recent years, winter had meant long nights alone in Downton Abbey before joining Patrick in an overcrowded house-party of the Marlborough set for fox-hunting and grouse-shooting in the New Year. Hardly the best answer to give to an impatient despot!

When she was younger, it had been different. There had been a pond at the end of the garden in Heislip, her home. It was always quick to freeze over in winter. Violet could remember well the joy of testing the thickness of the ice, the rasp of the sharpening stone on the steel blade of her skating boots. The sting of cold air on her cheeks as she glided in effortless circles, round and round.

"I do, your Majesty. When I was younger, my sister and I would love to skate on the pond at our home." The teasing smile softened. "We would spend hours there, spinning in circles."

The sentiment embarrassed Patrick. Violet had seen the glance thrown in her direction. But a pleased smile broadened on the Tsar's face.

"It is good. In Russia, too, we enjoy to skate on the ice. We have so much of it, you see." The quip led to more laughter. "If Lord Grantham must shoot, then we must endeavour for his charming wife to skate, yes? And who better than one of my best?"

"Your Majesty is too generous."

"Not at all, Lady Grantham. Ah, Kuragin! You young pup! I trust you haven not forgotten your old skill since you stepped into your father's shoes?"

 _No._

Violet froze.

A second equerry appeared at Patrick's shoulder. Not more than a step behind him were the Kuragins. The Princess swept the polished floor with a train of blue silk festooned with flowers. Pearls dripped from each ear and from the crown of her lovely dark head. The Prince towered over her, an easy smile on his saturnine face. He looked a peacock next to Patrick's crow-like black: his uniform tonight was the dark green of the Preobrazhensky Guards, trimmed with silver braid and epaulets. A red sash bisected his chest and a silver star sat in pride on place above his heart.

For a second the smile drifted to her. His eyebrows rose a little, the corner of his lips quirked. _Hello._

Violet snapped her gaze forward.

She did not turn, not even when Prince Kuragin spoke. "If I had forgotten, your imperial Majesty's wish would be enough to call it back."

"A likely story." The Tsar's scoff held more amusement than censure. "I should send you back to the frontier for your impertinence."

"My Tsar will always find me ready."

From the corner of her eye, Violet saw the dark head bow once more. A graceful movement to complement the graceful military response. But there was an off-note in the Prince's voice like a a mournful legato in an andante melody. Against her blue silk skirts, the Princess's free hand twitched. She heard it too.

"But while we have you now in Petersburg, Kuragin, we have a yet more dire task to demand of you." The Tsar indicated Violet with a wave of his hand. "Lady Grantham wishes to skate."

With all the eyes of the room on her, she could not but turn to acknowledge the Tsar's attention. Violet lifted her chin so the diamonds in her tiara flashed. Her smile was as chilly as the cold stones.

Prince Kuragin laid his hand across his chest, over the silver star. "Whatever Lady Grantham desires is my pleasure to fulfil, my Tsar."

He might have been answering his Tsar but every word was directed to her. His eyes lingered on her throat, on the red curl that tickled her skin and skimmed the outline of her breasts above the dipped and rounded neckline of her gown. When those black eyes jumped up to met her gaze again, he was laughing inside.

She narrowed her eyes. He tilted his head to the side, and the dark curl fell forward again. Her fingers twitched to push the tormenting twist back from his face.

"His Highness is too kind. I am sure," _Yes, I am speaking to you, rogue._ "I am sure I could not possibly accept."

 _Could not or should not?_ He seemed to taunt her. Her skin prickled along her arm, as though they were once again in Nashtya's drawing room and he held her hand in his. She could remember the heat of his skin and there was a faint scent of sandalwood in air that tickled her nose and made her want to sneeze. They were in a ballroom full of her peers, her acquaintances and her husband but at that moment it seemed to Violet that no one else existed. There was only her and him and that flash of energy sparking between them.

"Lady Grantham will not refuse me the chance to prove my own poor hospitality?" Prince Kuragin turned his shoulders, almost as though to block the crowd from view. Another man would play the tragedian, mocking her refusal. The black in front of Violet flared with the dare of a duellist, brandishing a verbal sabre.

"I have been so well treated thus far, your highness. If your hospitality is as poor as you say, I fear I must."

 _Too bold a hit._

Violet saw that in the thinning of Patrick's lips, the impatient tick of his fingers against the ceremonial sword belt around his waist. It was one thing for the Countess of Grantham to be witty. A witty socialite, like a beautiful wife, could be a source of pride and a useful tool to an ambitious man. But she could never be too witty, stealing the light from him. A wife's place was at her husband's side, not in front.

The other guests saw none of it. They saw and heard only the unusual Englishwoman spit back Kuragin's charm like it was vinegar. Broad grins escaped the faces of the men hemmed about the imperial family, ladies raised their fans to hide giggles behind egret feathers. The Tsarina shook her head, the great emeralds and sapphires glistening. Long fingers failed to hide the faint curve of her lips. Her husband was not restrained.

"I see my English cousin has not lied." The Tsar's lined cheek was flushed with laughter. He smacked his leg once more, his medals shaking. "Lady Grantham's tongue is sharp indeed. She has you bested, Kuragin."

"Forfeit!" One of the gentlemen, a fellow Guard, called out from the rear of the group. "A forfeit from Kuragin."

"Your Majesty, perhaps Prince Kuragin should be put to the test for his hospitality? Or?"

"An excellent proposal, my dear." The Tsar patted his wife's hand. "Kuragin?"

Violet saw the black eyes shift, the laughter falling way to calculation. Without missing the beat, Igor Kuragin turned to catch his wife's hand in his own. As a united front, they faced their sovereign. But it was the Prince who spoke.

"What better forfeit can your loyal subject offer, your Majesty, than a chance to prove his skill? A skating party." A low buzz of chatter broke amongst the courtiers. The English visitors glanced at each other in surprise. "To celebrate the traditions shared between Mother Russia and our English guests." The dark-haired Prince made a bow to the Prince of Wales.

The Tsar smiled. He opened his mouth as if to speak but Kuragin was too quick. He spread his hands wide, as though ready to feed the three thousand. "And, of course, your Majesty, I must have Lord and Lady Grantham as my most honoured guests."

 _Now. Who has bested who?_


	14. Chapter 14

**Winter Rose**

* * *

Previously...

 _"Your Majesty, perhaps Prince Kuragin should be put to the test for his hospitality? Or?"_

 _"An excellent proposal, my dear." The Tsar patted his wife's hand. "Kuragin?"_

 _Violet saw the black eyes shift, the laughter falling way to calculation. Without missing the beat, Igor Kuragin turned to catch his wife's hand in his own. As a united front, they faced their sovereign. But it was the Prince who spoke._

 _"What better forfeit can your loyal subject offer, your Majesty, than a chance to prove his skill? A skating party." A low buzz of chatter broke amongst the courtiers. The English visitors glanced at each other in surprise. "To celebrate the traditions shared between Mother Russia and our English guests." The dark-haired Prince made a bow to the Prince of Wales._

 _The Tsar smiled. He opened his mouth as if to speak but Kuragin was too quick. He spread his hands wide, as though ready to feed the three thousand. "And, of course, your Majesty, I must have Lord and Lady Grantham as my most honoured guests."_

* * *

Alexander II, Tsar of the Russias, acknowledged his subject's proposal with a gracious nod, his lips twitching.

"We shall consider it satisfactory. Do you agree, Prince Edward?"

"Indeed, your Majesty." Under heavy lids, the Prince's eyes gleamed with speculation. "A neat solution, all told."

Beside her husband, Alix, the Princess of Wales tossed back her dark curls. Her eyes glimmering with fun, she clapped her hands. "Such a clever idea, Prince Kuragin. And how better to draw English and Russian together, _nein_?"

"Devil a bit, m'dear." Prince Edward resettled his cummerbund. "You'll have us drawing up treaties at the race-track next."

"No objections here." The Duke of Edinburgh, flushed from the dancing and a glass too much champagne, butted in to the party. He smiled down at the young Grand Duchess Maria Alexandrovna, hanging on his arm. "The new way to conduct diplomacy, eh?"

His bride blushed, heightening the colour in her china-pale cheeks. In hesitant English, she replied. "It is very better than too-hot drawings rooms, I think."

"Almost as good as dancing, hmmm?" The Tsar's eagle eye softened for his favourite daughter, shy as a little mouse amongst the glamour of the English party and her young fiance.

"Your Majesty remembers," The Tsarevitch, stroking his thinning moustache with his mother's long, pale fingers, interrupted the run of conversation. His eyes rested on Patrick, who had yet to speak a word. "The Granthams are the guests of honour. The fate of the party rests on their shoulders."

A dozen pairs of eyes turned to the Earl.

"Well, Lord Grantham?"

Patrick was not a stupid man. He knew some deeper game was at play here. A tiny furrow married the pale skin of his forehead. His thumb flicked against his sword belt in rhythm with the thoughts Violet could nearly see spinning around his mind. Prince Kuragin's offer had been too prompt, too neat. Almost as though it were a trap.

It was. But not the kind that Patrick would ever imagine.

Slowly, her husband bowed to Igor Kuragin, a shallow incline of his head. "How could I refuse so generous an offer? My wife and I would be delighted to accept."

He reached out a hand. Boney, pale skinned. Violet took it. The first touch of skin was chilly. Patrick's hands were always cold. Her fingers slid into his grip and he pulled her closer, tucking her arm into his.

Kuragin's smile did not waver. If anything, it widened. It was a grin, bright with a flash of teeth. "The Princess and I are delighted that you accept."

The Princess murmured something inaudible and inclined her head. The expression on her face was anything but delighted.

Sly glances darted in between the courtiers gathered like starlings behind the royal attendees. The English Prince tilted his head to the side, his lips pursed under his beard.

"Excellent." If he entertained the same amusement as his subjects at the brittle meeting of two noble houses, the Tsar gave no indication of it. He waved his hand briskly. "I trust we shall speak before you leave, Lord Grantham. Lady Grantham, I am certain of it. Kuragin, you and the Princess shall…?"

"My tsar." Kuragin bowed once more. The Princess swept a deep curtsey, as elegant as a Russian ballerina.

With that, they were dismissed.

Rising up from her curtsey, Violet took Patrick's arm once more. A flicker of his eyes indicated a space away from the royal gathering, less crowded than the rest in the ballroom. Violet let her chin dip a little in agreement and stooped to pick up her train.

"Allow me."

Blue eyes shot up. The courteous words slid over the air like oil on fish. Violet stood, the train forgotten, her free hand pressed against the barrier of her corset.

"Lord Hepworth. What are you doing here?"

The words slipped out before she had the sense to call them back. Hepworth gave one of his little laughs. The arch chuckle rasped across Violet's nerves. "I received an invitation, Lady Grantham. How else? Did you imagine I would tackle the Tsar's ferocious number of household guards?"

"You cannot blame my wife, Hepworth. You're not usually a fan of these sort of things." Patrick nodded a greeting to the slender viscount.

"Where the Prince demands to go, I must be a humble attendant." Hepworth spread his hands in an innocent gesture. His obsequious air made Violet want to spit like a wetted cat. No doubt Hepworth hung so close to the Prince and his group in hopes of being called to the Tsar's attention himself.

"Humble? What a novelty to hear that word next to your name, Lord Hepworth."

The full lips widened. "I do so adore your conversation, Lady Grantham. So bracing. Like a chill breeze."

Violet narrowed her eyes. Her fingers, splayed against the silk skirts of her dress, tensed. Before she could open her mouth, a cough rumbled from behind. "Please. We have not been introduced."

Patrick, caught in a social lapse, flushed along the scimitar of his cheekbones. "Of course. Forgive me." He stepped to the side, pressing against Violet so the Kuragins had space to move up toward the intruder in their midst. "Hepworth, Prince and Princess Kuragin. Your highness, Viscount Lord Harold Hepworth."

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, your Highness."

Igor Kuragin's gaze shifted from Hepworth to Patrick. His expression was inscrutable. "Thank you."

"Another Englishman!" The Princess shook her head with delicate laugh. The pearls clacked gently. "We Russians shall soon be outnumbered."

"In a country of millions, Princess, I can hardly think that to be the case." Patrick attempted a joke. The Princess flicked her fan up, as though to cover her grimace of distaste.

"But is it not one of your so-English sayings, Lord Grantham? One bad apple spoils the tree, no?"

"Lord Hepworth, you will join our entertainment, yes?" Kuragin cut his wife short with a deft change of subject.

"Entertainment?" Hepworth pretended ignorance. Violet knew well he had heard every word of the interchange with the Tsar. Like a large rat, Hepworth consumed every crumb of cheese or gossip that fell within his general vicinity.

"The Princess and I hold a skating party. Before the wedding. To celebrate the closeness of our Russian and English traditions."

"At the Tsar's suggestion." Patrick remarked.

"Yes." Kuragin's eyes settled on Patrick. The amusement was gone. Instead, he studied the pale features coolly. His gaze slipped to Patrick's arm, to the pale hand with the Grantham signet that pressed down on Violet's arm. "At the Tsar's suggestion."

"Well, I should be delighted." Hepworth laid his hand on his chest. "And Lord and Lady Grantham?"

"We are both to attend."

"How splendid." Hepworth glanced sideway with a smile. He touched Violet's elbow with his fingertips. "And Lady Grantham will surely take time to teach an old duffer like me the ropes?"

Violet turned her elbow away from his grasp, tucking it in tighter. "I wonder you should ask, Lord Hepworth. I have not skated in years."

"I'm told it is a childhood skill." The Princess unfurled her fan. She waved the dyed feathers in a lazy tick in front of her face. The feathers did not quite cover the smirk on her face. "Lady Grantham will surely remember all once she steps on the ice."

"You flatter me too much, Princess."

"Not at all, Lady Grantham. I am told Englishwomen are most enterprising."

She said _enterprising_ like an insult, dragging the syllables out to their fullest extent. The pansy eyes were narrowed to slits of dislike.

"What a novel choice of words, Princess." Violet's throat prickled with heat. She swallowed hard and pasted on her courtier's smile.

"It is, Irina." Igor Kuragin took up the Princess's hand, hooking it under his own. "You will scare our guests away."

"Of course, Igor."

"As our Tsar said, you are our guests of honour." Kuragin's voice softened, rich as honey. It lingered for a second. Then, even as his wife opened her mouth, he continued. "Both of you." Again, the black eyes shot up to Patrick's.

Patrick's lips twitched. "How can it be otherwise?" His voice rasped on the words.

The corner of Igor Kuragin's lips curled up. It was a hint, a taster. Such a smile, a man might throw his opponent on the duelling field. Before he shot him dead.

Violet knew she had to break the tension. There was little hope turning to the Princess. Irina Kuragin had made her feelings towards Violet clear. She would not help, even if it benefitted herself. The two men stared at each other like a pair of dogs snarling over a bone. Patrick, she was sure, was merely feeding off Igor Kuragin, responding to the other man's bait. And for Kuragin…

In the end, her saviour was an entirely unexpected source.

"Ah." Harold Hepworth raised his head. The first strains of a waltz began to sweep from the head of the ballroom. The violins throbbed in invitation. "I do believe they are playing our dance."

All eyes snapped to the slender Viscount.

"What?" Igor Kuragin barked the word. The mocking curl of his lip took a distinct downturn.

"Our dance." Hepworth turned to Violet with a condescending smile. "Don't you recall, Lady Grantham?"

"I don't _ever_ …"

Hepworth flicked up a slim booklet. Embossed in silver, with a tiny silver pencil tied to it, it was the same item he had stooped to pick up.

Violet's dance card.

"If I may." He parted the leaves. His eyes widened. In silence, he turned the pages towards her. There, under the second waltz, scrawled in pencil: Viscount Hepworth.

Would it be possible to shout 'fraud' at an imperial reception?

"I do fancy that we should hurry, Lady Grantham."

The couples were dripping onto the dance floor, several at a time. Soon it would be too crowded to breathe, let alone waltz. They would be forced to shuffle in a three-beat time. With Hepworth's arms and hands crawling all over her torso.

Violet's fingers tightened on Patrick's sleeve. Would her husband's newly discovered cordiality extend to rescuing her from this waltz? She turned to look up at Patrick, biting her lower lip. Surely, he would understand. He was not unaware of her disinclination towards Hepworth, even if it pleased him to forget it so often…

But Patrick was already distracted. His gaze looked above her, somewhere in the distance of the hall. He gave a quick nod of agreement. He glanced down, as though surprised to see Violet still clinging to his arm.

A quick pat was given to her hand. "Hepworth is right, my dear. If you will excuse me the pleasure? I see the Prince is asking for me."

Violet's eyes widened. The blow smacked a wave of bitterness in her stomach, roiling against the wine and food of her dinner. How could she think that she would ever succeed against Patrick's first love: his 'career'?

"Lady Grantham?" Hepworth's gloved hand was held out to her.

Violet lifted her hand from Patrick's sleeve. The broadcloth was wrinkled from her grip, the buttons a little askew. The Earl made a grimace of annoyance and smoothed out the sleeve to army perfection once again.

Violet turned to laid her hand in Hepworth's palm. Under the cover of his bow, the Viscount flashed her a triumphant smile. Violet felt her stomach clench in rude anticipation.

"Are you sure this is wise?"

Violet jumped. She had been so intent on the trial ahead, she had nearly forgotten they stood in a group of strangers. And now one of them decided to intervene.

"Forgive me." Igor Kuragin brushed away the outraged glances as coolly as he would a servant offering champagne. "But Lady Grantham is pale."

The Princess laughed. "Igor, you are ridiculous! With such hair, pale skin is natural. Is that not so, Lady Grantham?"

Violet held her breath. Was Prince Kuragin, the arrogant, self-centred Prince Kuragin offering her a life line?

"Of course, Irina. How clever you notice." Igor Kuragin shrugged. "I merely think, this hall, it is so crowded. In London, Lord Grantham, gatherings are not usually so… Big?"

"I dare say not." Patrick stared at the Russian in astonishment. He wet his lips. "I do not attend many such events."

"Of course. The English, they do not have time for pleasure. It is well known." Before the Earl could do more than gape at the casual insult, Prince Kuragin had turned back to his wife. A charming smile showed his teeth. "Irina, _katyonak_ , you will oblige the Lord Hoppy and take Lady Grantham's place?"

"Hepworth." The Viscount ground his name through gritted teeth.

"But of course."

"Igor, I will _not_."

" _Katyonak_ ," He touched her chin, drawing out the endearment indulgently, to the embarrassment of the onlookers. "I know how you love to dance. And with my old war wound, I cannot waltz as you would wish."

"But-"

"Go with Lord Hepping, my love. Enjoy the dance."

"Princess." Hepworth clipped the word to the barest hint of civility.

Irina Kuragin did not even reach that level. With a flounce of disgust, she took the outstretched hand. If intentions were weapons, a thousand daggers would have been buried deep in Violet's heart from those wide brown eyes.

The Prince watched his wife depart with a smiling shake of the head. He turned back to the Granthams. "Lord Grantham, of course, I shall escort Lady Grantham to a suitable seat, should you wish to depart." He glanced in the same direction as Patrick and pursed his lips. "How do you put it? Duty shouts?"

Duty did and Violet could see Patrick struggle. On the one hand, he needed to join the Prince of Wales, offering him a chance to polish the reputation for diplomacy he worked so hard to cultivate. On the other, some more primitive instinct set his teeth on edge at the thought of his wife in the care of this… _foreigner_.

"The Prince of Wales, he beckons." Like Eve in the garden, Kuragin's voice tempted Patrick on. He raised his eyebrows.

"My dear." Patrick looked down at Violet. His face was set in firm lines. He had made his decision. "You will send word? If you need to return home?"

 _What?_

"Of course." How astonishing, Violet marvelled as her hand was once again passed between two men, that one's voice can remain steady even when one is quaking inside? She set her hand on the Prince's sleeve. Through the green cloth, heat rose and tickled her fingers.

The Prince lifted his own hand. He set it above hers, covering her wedding band from view. "I can assure you, Lord Grantham, I shall care for your wife as though she were my own." His voice lowered to a deeper rumble. He shifted his shoulders, as though to shield around Violet and she swallowed deeply. Self-conscious, she tucked a loose curl behind her ear.

"My thanks, Prince Kuragin."

Her husband's voice seemed far away, as distant as the fading of his footsteps on the panelled floor. Violet wet her lips. Even if she could not meet his gaze, every inch of her exposed neck and face could feel the Prince's gaze. It was unsettling. It was uncalled for and, in the middle of a public ballroom, utterly indecent. She stepped forward briskly, determined to escape to clear air.

"Not so fast." The hand tightened on hers. The rumble was rich with humour, like a honey vein running through it. "You forget, you are having the vapours."

"I am not!" She turned back and that was a mistake. Because she met his smiling gaze and was stuck. Violet straightened her shoulders with pride. "I cannot think what made you create such a ridiculous story."

"So you wanted to dance with the Lord Hepworth?"

The best way to avoid a question was to deflect with another. Violet raised her eyebrows. "So you do know his name?"

"Of course." Igor Kuragin shrugged again, and tugged her back. When they were once again side by side, he continued, matching his pace to his slow murmur. "But I do not like him. And neither do you."

"My opinion of Lord Hepworth is none of your concern."

"That is true." They moved through the crowd, dodging sly glances and stray feet. More than once, Prince Kuragin pulled Violet closer, so their side stood aligned and she could feel the curves and bumps of his waist and hips, hard against her own. The pretence of dodging the dancing partners lasted long enough for Violet to feel her cheeks heat and her breath come shallow.

"I am surprised your husband permitted his attentions."

"I cannot think what you mean."

"Do you not? I mean why he permits a rogue to waltz with his lovely wife."

"He permitted a rogue to escort me to a couch for fresh air."

He laughed, startled at first then mellowing. "I see your Prince is right, no? The sharpest tongue in London."

They had reached a free couch now. Violet thought he would stand beside her, perhaps offer a moment or two more of his uncomfortable conversation before another woman claimed his attention.

She should have known. She was scarcely seated on the yellow silk cushions before he was there beside her. His legs in their high, shining boots, sprawled in front. They brushed her skirts and his thigh rested in casual unconcern against her knee. He looked like Bacchus, Violet thought, her mind skittering about. Bacchus, relaxing in divine unconcern, promising temptation to the unwary.

She unfurled her fan. The painted panels cooled her cheeks and gave lie to the fib he had concocted. "My tongue is none of your Highness's concern."

"I would it were." He remarked. His eyes settled there, even as he spoke. "I would very much enjoy the subject of your tongue, my lady. And your lips. And…"

"That will do." The fan beat faster. Violet glanced to the side. "Are you aware we are in a public ballroom?"

"Why do you think I am so restrained?"

"Restrained?" She scoffed. "I dread to imagine you uninhibited."

"You do not have to imagine, my Lady Violet. Only ask."

"I am married." She threw it out. A final bastion of virtue.

"So am I. What of it? We are not considering an elopement?" His eyes danced. Hidden from the view of the other guests, his hand slid free. It slid up the side of her leg, dragging her silk skirt against the flow.

Violet nearly leapt out of her skin. No man had ever touched her in that way. Only Patrick and even then, only in the privacy of their bedchamber. Hepworth at his worst had never dared more than a sly press to the small of her back, below the level of proper.

"That will do!" She twisted her knees away so there was space between then. Inches, maybe. But space. His hand fell flat to the cushions. Yet his smile never faltered.

"I like it when you are shocked, Violet." He sat up. Reaching into her lap, he stole her free hand. He slipped it between his own, his thumbs brushed the ridges of her knuckles under the linen gloves. "I like how your lips part and the colour goes to your cheeks and neck. I like how your hair crackles with outrage. Like fire."

A thousand thoughts battered against her brain, demanding release. Set-downs, insults, questions. Yet the only one to come to mind was terrible, so childish, Violet cringed the instant the words left her lips. "My hair is not like fire!"

He smiled and she knew he was satisfied. He had needled her, drawn her out and now she could not cut him off. "It is, _solnyshka_. Like fire on the snow. I would I could see it loose, _solnyshka_. Long red curls, spilling in my hands. I've thought of little else since I saw you."

Her pulse hammered in her throat. She wanted to pull her hand back. No, she _needed_ her hand back, she needed that shield to hide the tell-tale heat inching up her throat. Every nerve stood on end, rubbed to friction as easily as his fingers stroked patterns on the black of her glove. Violet couldn't look away from his dark, smiling face, the eyebrow quirked in question, his eyes on her lips.

She cleared her throat. "How distressing for you."

Somehow, her voice could not gather up the venom she usually summoned.

"You think so? I find it very enjoyable."

"I'm sure it passes the time."

His voice lowered, scarcely above a whisper. "Some day, I will show you."

Violet's stomach dropped to her toes.

She snatched back her hand, as though his grip was scalding iron. For once, Igor Kuragin did not try to hold her back. He closed his fingers one at a time into a loose fist as if locking away the sensation of her hand between his. Violet shook her head, breaking her gaze from the sight.

What she losing her wits? Because a man held her hand? This was not Violet Crawley, Countess of Grantham. This simple-minded creature stared with her mouth open while an insolent… _Prince_ propositioned her in front of the cream of Petersburg society!

Her eyes narrowed as righteous indignation burnt away the spell. It was, perhaps, as childish a reaction to his mockery as her earlier retort. Grown women reacted to every situation with grace and poise, accepting praise and blame with indifferent equanimity. Her mother would have counselled a cool head, using modesty and logic to deflect any indecent proposal.

 _Was it likely_ , Violet wondered ruefully, _that her mother ever faced down a proposal like this_? The smile that promised so much, that whispered of long nights doing things no lady should imagine? The new burning in her legs and arms, like liquid fire seeping along each vein? The horrid, yet wonderful and wondering, sensitivity along her skin as though his gaze as a breeze, sending the hairs on end in tension and awareness?

She wanted to blush and turn away, run away. Yet at the same time, another Violet, hidden in the darker corners of her mind, gloried in the attention, in the admiration. The same Violet who wanted nothing more than to mimic Kuragin, run her own hand down his thigh and feel the muscles there clench under her fingers and hear his own breath inhale sharply on the same desire that afflicted her…

"Violet?"

His voice was a breath above a whisper. Her so very English name seemed to take on an exotic tint in his voice. It was different, closer to Nashtya's French pronunciation. Violet's breath sounded loud in her ears, even if she could swear her breathing had not changed. She licked her lips.

"I…" Her fan beat faster, as fast as her heart. "I… I think I am having the vapours now."

 _Oh God._

Igor Kuragin stared at her as though he could not quite believe his ears. His mouth hung open, the confident smile frozen in place. Lazy amusement vanished from his eyes. In its place, confusion blinked as though Violet had taken a wet fish and smacked him across the cheek.

He looked stupefied and… _funny_.

Hysterical giggles bubbled up Violet's nose. She slapped her hand to her mouth but it was not enough. She couldn't help it. The laughter escaped from her lips, bouncing between them. So she stopped trying and gave in to the hysteria that carried her along.

She stole a glance from between her fingers at Igor Kuragin. Would the great seducer give up? March away in disgust from her childish spectacle? Patrick would never have stood to be the subject of ridicule, particularly of his wife.

Kuragin was stretched back across the couch. At first, she wondered if this was another mockery, to show his indifference to her amusement. Then she saw the silver star on his chest shake, saw the silver braid and green cloth tremble. He lifted his head and the boyish curl danced above a wide grin.

"Ah, Violet!" Uncaring of the nobles around them, he leaned forward and snatched her hand, planting a smacking kiss on the knuckles. "Tell me all Englishwomen are like you, my Violet. I will move to London at once and to hell with the weather."

"Prince Kuragin!" Still breathless from laughter, Violet shook her head. She aimed for forbidding but it could not come. Her lips curved so wide, she wondered it was not seen across the room. "No, indeed. In England, this is not appropriate."

"Then I will stay here. With you." His eyes softened. It was not desire there now, not the same heat to which Violet had grown accustomed. Something gentle lurked there. A featherlight touch brushed against her chin, lifting her face to stare at his, full-on.

"It is good to see you smile, _solnyshka_. You do not smile enough, I think."

"Prince Kuragin-"

"Lady Grantham?"

The strange voice was like a douse of cold water. With a jerk of her head, Violet pulled back. Beside the couch, an imperial equerry stood, his hands hooked behind his back. One bored eyebrow raised in insolent question.

The diamonds around her throat seemed to clutch like a jewelled collar belted too tight. Violet raised her hand, pushing the gems about to try and breathe.

"Yes?"

Her voice was too breathy. It sounded utterly unlike her familiar tones, too husky and low to be the clipped politeness of the Countess of Grantham.

The equerry bowed. Not once did his eyes flicker to the man beside her on the couch.

"Lord Grantham, he sends compliments, my lady. He waits for you at the door."

"Patrick… My husband is leaving?" Her skirts rustled like a chatter of starlings scared to flight. Violet stood, clutching her reticule to her stomach. "I must go."

She turned. Manners dictated she thank Prince Kuragin for his escort and his care. The proper words were simple enough. Still, she hesitated.

He did not make it difficult. With a graceful gesture, he rose to his feet and nodded. "Good night, Lady Grantham." He was as distant as a stranger, as if the past moments were a hallucination in her own fevered mind. "I will see you again."

This time, it did not sound like a threat.

Violet nodded in return. "Good night, your highness." She could not thank him. She did not even know if she could.

She turned back to the equerry. "If you please."

The servant bowed once more, low enough to see the powder grains on his white wig. He indicated a side door to the left of the great double-doomed entrance of the ballroom. Violet followed him. She did not look back. She promised herself she would not.

If she had, she would have seen the Prince Kuragin study his bare left hand, a perplexed frown digging deep lines in between his dark eyebrows. Slowly, he closed over each finger, until his hand closed in a fist.

* * *

 **I'm sorry I took longer than usual to post up this chapter - to be honest I hadn't expected it to go on as long as it did. I hope you enjoyed it (and the Violet/Igor moment - yup, she can't seem to escape him!) and thank you all for the lovely reviews! I really appreciate them and they give a great kick to keep writing!**


	15. Chapter 15

**Winter Rose**

* * *

 _The Summer Gardens, St Petersburg_

"Mama!"

The sharp tug on her skirts woke Violet from her reverie. She shook her head, a vain attempt to clear her mind from the muddle of thoughts that plagued her since the evening before.

The frown had not quite smoothed from her face when she turned to the interloper. "What _is_ it?"

Her daughter's pink face, cushioned between the furry flaps of her new Russian-style hat, crumpled. Her blue eyes, a mirror of Violet's own, welled up with tears. Rosamund had always been sensitive. _Precocious_ was the word Violet's mother used. The slightest unkindness was enough to drive her to easy tears, only to be soothed by several hours of petting and sweets.

Recognising the signs of a growing tantrum, Violet glanced around. Kettle was not to be seen. Robert and Katya's own young son, George, were occupied closer to the main group. The young Lord Downton was instructing the Prince in the finer art of building a snowman while Grigory's own nurse, an enormous Georgian from the Caucaus, looked on indulgently.

The young Countess sighed and reached out. "Rosamund, come here."

The young girl stepped closer, her lower lip still trembling. Violet slipped her hand from her muff and stroked her daughter's cold-pinkened cheek. "Mama is not angry with you. I.." She glanced down. "I was just sad."

"Why?"

It was bad practice, old Lady Grantham, Violet's mother-in-law claimed, to indulge the curiosity of children. Children were to be silent until they could be trusted to speak sensibly. For the first time, Violet was tempted to agree with the old harridan. How could she possibly explain away her thoughts to her young daughter when she shrank from even voicing them to herself?

Sleep had not come easily after she and Patrick returned to their apartment in the Anchikov palace. Left alone in her bedroom, she had paced the floor into the early hours of the snowy morning. She could not sit down. Every time she pulled back the heavy blankets of her luxurious bed and lay down to sleep, her veins thrummed with nervous energy. The sheets creased in uncomfortable lines, her long night gown caught her legs in a suffocating tangle. She would lie on the bed scarcely five minutes before dark eyes danced in her mind and smiling lips blew whispers across her pricking skin. Then she would need to rise again. Rise and pace, up and down, anything to break the tension that wound her tighter than a corset lace.

Finally, Violet gave in and lit the candle beside her bed. Carrying it over to her dresser, she stared at the wild-eyed woman in the mirror opposite. Red curls fell about a stark face, ripped from the neat plait her maid had woven before retiring. Shadows hung under large blue eyes and trouble lurked in their depths. It seemed as though a stranger stared back at her. Another Violet, a different Violet, one that had stayed sleeping under her skin for the past eight years.

"Not good." She spoke the words aloud. It was not enough to think them. She had to _hear_ it. It had to exist, like a physical shove in the right direction. "One foolish thought, one silly smile and you want to risk everything? Sniggering like a child in corners? That is not how you behave, Violet Elizabeth Steyne. You are a wife and a mother and you are far too old for that kind of nonsense."

A glint of silver caught her eye. The silver samovar sat in the shadows of her room, atop a broad table. Violet had ordered the gift moved immediately after breakfast. To have it glittering in Patrick's plain view every time they sat down to a meal was intolerable. Since there was no more appropriate setting, the footmen had moved it to her own bedchamber. A mistaken assumption that she preferred Russian tea before retiring to bed.

Now, there it sat. Intruding, as did the giver, upon the peace of her private sanctuary. Anger, at being awake, at Kuragin and most especially at her own foolish self, flooded Violet's veins. The pale cheeks flushed red in the mirror's reflected surface. She gripped the silver backed hair-brush on her dresser. For a moment her finger bones stood stark against the delicate skin of her hand. Spinning on the stool, Violet hurled the brush against the glinting tea pot.

The brush thumped the wall several feet from the samovar. The sound broke the still night, as effectively as if Violet had flung the brush through a pane of glass.

Violet froze. The noise was slight, yes. But the walls of the palace were thin, as thin as those in Grantham House. Had she woken someone? Had she woken Patrick? How could she explain? That she had spent the night pacing the room, that she had attacked a gift supposedly from the innocent Nicholas Sumarokov, all as a result of attending a ball?

The palace was silent. On the broad avenue outside her window, the bells of the Kazan Cathedral tolled. Three chimes. Three o'clock.

Slowly, Violet walked across the room. She picked up the brush, checked the back for dents or scratches. None were visible in the dim candlelight. The samovar squatted at her shoulder.

She was cold, Violet realised then. The fire had long burnt away in the grate and Petersburg nights were chillier than London. The fair hairs on her arms stood on end and she shivered in her thin nightgown.

None of this made sense. If she had been a green girl, sixteen again and enamoured of the local squire's son, it might be understandable. If she had been a loose woman, a light-skirt who saw advantage in the bed of a better-born man, it might be understandable. But she was not. She knew better than to be seduced by a hot rush of blood to the head. She had seen the same scene played over and over again and she knew where it led.

Disgrace and dishonour. Worse.

Divorce.

A woman backed by powerful friends and a rich family could survive divorce. A woman with nothing to lose and no children to care for nor sisters to share the shame. A woman married to a common man, of little interest to world.

Violet was not that woman. And the knowledge settled in the pit of her stomach like a cold stone.

She went back to bed. When exhaustion overtook her, it was dawn. She had barely two hours of sleep before Matlock scratched on the door with her chocolate and her letter.

Her letter.

Violet glanced down at the closely-written sheets on her lap. The familiar copper-plate handwriting ended in Dolly's distinctive swirl. Her sister must have posted the letter less than a day after Violet left England for it to arrive so promptly.

"Why?" She gave her daughter's cheek a final pat. "Because I miss your Aunt Roberta."

"Lady Rosamund!"

Kettle steamed up to the mother and daughter, her breath puffing in the cool afternoon air. Her mob-cap of office bobbed in indignation. "Why are you disturbing your Mamma at her rest? My lady, that is very bad…"

"It is all right, Kettle." Violet interrupted the nursemaid tirade. "Lady Rosamund did not disturb me over much."

"I should hope not, my lady." The mottled cheeks flushed bright. "Your ladyship will forgive me, I hope. I had a call of nature and these Russkie nursemaids…"

"It is quite all right." Violet repeated. A small dart pricked her heart as Rosamund abandoned her for the comfort of Kettle's plump skirts. She covered the rejection with a rustle of the papers on her lap. "I was occupied with my letter in any case."

Kettle descended in a stately bob. "Very good, my lady. Come along now, you miss." She shook Lady Rosamund's mittened hand in reproach, a dragon's frown creasing her plump face.

Violet turned back to her letter. Dolly's exuberance spilled over the pages, displayed in her frequent splodges of ink. She wrote of dance steps and dresses and extolled the virtues of Lady Constantine, who had received all of them for tea and was rumoured - _really!_ \- to be bosom friends with the Duchess of Argyll. Could Vivi credit it?

Violet, being bosom friends herself with the Duchess of Argyll, and knowing the encroaching Lady Constantine of old, found herself smiling. The only thing to dampen Dolly's enthusiasm, it seemed, was the prospect of having poplin instead of silk for her new tea gown.

"You are absorbed?"

Violet looked up, the smile lingering. "Only a little."

"It is from England, that letter?" Katya, elegant in dark sable furs took a seat beside Violet. She shivered, lifting the muff to the small hook of her nose. " _Mon Dieu_ , it is cold."

"You were the one who thought a picnic in January was a quaint idea."

"I was affected by champagne." The Princess gave a theatrical shiver. "Never again, I swear! But Gogo, he enjoys this." Her face softened a little as she watched the little boys fight over pebbles for the snowman's eyes. "And it is good, I think, to leave the drawing rooms a time or two."

"Nashtya does not seem to be complaining."

"Ah but Nashtya has brought a hot brick to put at her feet."

Violet laughed. "That does sound like Nashtya!"

"Enterprising, you mean? Of course!"

"True." Violet tucked Dolly's letter away into her muff once again. The news would keep another few hours, until she had composed her mind enough to pick up the pen and write a reply. She nodded towards the older Princess and her young companion, ensconced in the open-top carriage and smothered in a variety of blankets. "Nashtya is enterprising in more ways than one."

Katya's gaze followed Violet's. She shook her head in amusement. "Nashtya plays a dangerous game. Ivan Niemov would rather walk naked down the Nevsky Prospekt than see his daughter married to a Sumarokov."

"It's a pity." Violet did not often find herself in sympathy with star-crossed lovers. But the sight of Count Nicholas Sumarokov clinging with dogged endurance to the outside door of his aunt's carriage, his head turned up in worshipful adoration of pretty Lidia Niemov within, made her smile. "Count Nicholas is a fine young man."

"Ah, but his father! A more hard-bitten reactionary one would never wish to meet." Katya raised her eyes to the heavens. "It is a mercy he rarely leaves his estate. I suppose the outside world holds too much equality for such a petty tyrant to stomach."

"How did Count Nicholas escape?"

"According to Nashtya, her brother-in-law's despotism is only exceeded by his ambition. I suppose the prospect of a Sumarokov stamping across the world stage was too irresistable to deny."

"Stamping?" Violet's lips twitched. It was difficult to imagine the painfully correct Count Nicholas making such a definite statement. She studied the young couple again. The Count had only just steeled himself to put one foot on the carriage footrest. Even that small intrusion into the sacred space of Lidia Niemov redoubled his shyness so that every second sentence was punctuated by a deferential bow.

"Even if Kolya Sumarokov was the chief Ambassador to Paris, it would not be enough for Ivan Niemov to overlook his origins. He wants someone of his own political mind." Katya shook out her skirts and shrugged. "Such is the world. I dare say events are already in motion to engage Lidia to some well-born liberal. They have cousins in Smolensk."

"An arranged marriage? In this day and age?"

"Why not? In our circles, it is not so uncommon. Surely it is the same in England?"

"Yes…"

"Ah." Sentiment made Katya lay her hand across her heart. "You and the Earl? A love match then?"

"It was not arranged." Violet demurred. "Not in the way you describe."

"That is lovely. Like a theatre." Katya sighed. Her eyes drifted towards the two young boys playing in the snow. On the outskirts, Rosamund watched her brother from the shelter of Kettle's skirts, a wistful look on her small face. The crisp afternoon air carried the high-pitched voices of the children easily to the ears of their watching mothers.

"Prince George is mature for his age." Violet observed. The young boy held his own easily under Robert's orders, his pinched face grave as he listened to the English words.

"Gogo is a good boy. I am glad that I could give Sasha a son first." Katya's voice lowered to a whisper. "It is important, I think. Not so much for the mother. But the man always wants a son, to be certain."

She lifted her head. A frown dipped between her eyebrows. Distracted by the abrupt silence, Violet turned to follow her gaze.

Katya's low voice chuckled in her ear. "My big cousin seems to be your shadow, Violet. Every time we meet, he is there too."

Violet swallowed. Words stuck in her throat, impossible to dislodge and refute Katya's teasing.

In the riding path along the main carriage road, astride a bay stallion, Prince Kuragin rode. For once, he was alone. At least, he had no companions, only a groom dawdling several strides behind on a tubby chestnut. Despite the chill in the air, he wore no hat to obscure his face. As it was, Violet could see his expression clearly. Her pulse skipped a beat.

For the first time since Igor Kuragin crashed into her life, he was not smiling. The black eyes stared into the path ahead without seeing a single foot of it. There was no quip to the groomsman riding behind, no curiosity in the world of people riding and driving past. He seemed focussed entirely inward. His downturned lips twitched once or twice; much as if he was conducting a silent argument against the shadows dancing around his head.

"Igor!"

He did not hear. Katya stood up, waving. "Igor!"

The groom called out something in Russian. Kuragin turned behind him, a scowl beginning on his face. The groom indicated the two women sitting to the side of the carriage path.

Katya gave another wave. Slowly, Kuragin raised his hand in return. The palm hesitated mid-air. His gaze swept to Violet, sitting beside the dark-haired Princess. His hand lowered, resettled the reins.

What did that mean? Her nerves already strained from a sleepless night, Violet's heart lurched even as the rest of her body remained still. Her heart like a wild beast caught in an icy cage and it scrabbled faster against the iron bars as the Prince left the riding path to trot over to them.

He could not doff his cap but Kuragin made an elegant enough bow from the saddle. "It is good to see you, Katya. Lady Grantham."

The calm greeting was inoffensive and yet Violet was offended. She had been up half the night, pacing the floor after this man flirted with her in terms no gentleman should use… And now he greeted her as a complete stranger?

Two could play that game. She returned a frosty nod. "Your highness."

"Why are you here, Igor?" Katya put out her hand for his impulsively. "I did not think you liked to rise before sunset in Petersburg."

"Call it my country ways catching up on me, Katya. In more ways than one." Seeing his cousin wanted more than a quick greeting, Kuragin swung his leg over the bay's broad back. He landed neatly with a crunch on the snow. The stallion snorted at the sudden movement, throwing his head into the air. Katya gave a squeak of surprise, falling back against Violet's shoulder.

"Hush!" Kuragin gripped the reins under the stallions hard iron bit. He tugged down the sculpted head, stroking the dark neck with his free hand. "Hush, Marengo. Don't be a fool, Katya. He won't hurt you."

"You said the same to me when we were children and I was frightened of Boris Peshkov's big hunting dog. _He_ left a scar on my hand as big as a kopek!" Katya pressed her hand to Violet's arm as if still terrified but her voice was teasing. "My cousin had never been afraid so he cannot imagine what such a feeling is."

"Surely that is an admirable quality in a soldier?" Violet raised her eyebrows. The teasing won her a lightening of Kuragin's frown.

"You would be surprised, Countess. My friend Tolik would say one cannot be a good soldier without also being a secret coward."

"And your cousin Katya would ask why Igor Kuragin has lowered himself to ride out alone and find company in a children's picnic." Katya, recovered from her fear, arched one eyebrow.

"Count Niemov asked me to ride past and see that his daughter was safe." Igor lifted his chin in the direction of the little ensemble around Nashtya's carriage. Count Nicholas had by now gained enough confidence in his welcome to be entirely seated within the carriage, albeit on the opposite bench. "It appears he is losing confidence in Princess Nashtya's trustworthiness as a chaperone."

"And you, Igor Sergeyevich Kuragin, are to be a defender of virtue?"

"Believe me, Katya, when I say that the virtue of Lidia Ivanovna is entirely safe from my dubious charms."

"Does that hold true for all present, cousin?"

"Minx."

"I do not hear a denial in that, Katya."

Violet's jab earned her the first smile. The hard furrow between Igor's eyes smoothed. His hand slowed in its long strokes of the stallion's neck. "I am an honest man, Countess. It is my greatest failing."

Violet noticed shadows under Igor's eyes, heavy as bruises even under his tanned skin. There were lines under his eyes and she realised then that he was her own age, probably a year or two older. Only thirty years old and yet age had scored his face as much as it had Patrick, a man ten years older.

Was it only seeing him in the day's harsh light that brought this to her attention? Or had something happened between their meeting last night and their meeting now that set a crack in the charming facade that drew attention like flames draw moths?

Was she so strange that this new Kuragin, taciturn and quiet, drew her deeper into the depths of those black eyes than any glib charm or teasing smile?

Violet turned to pick up her muff from the bench. "Strange, Prince Kuragin that-"

"Mama! Mama! Come and see-!"

Violet gasped in surprise as a heavy barrel of furs crashed into her stomach. The weight made her stagger, unbalanced by the force. She grabbed for Katya's arm. The Princess, not expecting a sudden tug, let out a shriek.

The stallion, high-strung and nervous after standing still for so long, let out a high-pitched squeal. The unexpected visitor racing about his legs terrified him. He gave a rear, short and hard. His hooves punched the air for a second but he no sooner landed than he was up again. Higher this time. The bundle yelped in fright. Kuragin swore. His hand flailed at the reins, grabbing for the thin leather. The groom shouted from behind, scrambling to his master's aid.

The front hoof, tipped in iron, flicked out. Violet cried out but she was not fast enough. Igor was. He swept the bundle to the side, from the danger of the stallion as the groom dragged the horse back to the ground. Hurriedly, he back the stallion away from the group, shaking as much as the beast from the experience.

Still swearing softly, Igor plucked the large fur hat from top of the bundle. Two large blue eyes welled with a boy's tears at the row of stricken faces. Violet's heart stopped.

"Robert!" Fury, born of terror, flared to an inferno. She snatched forward for the boy, wanted to smack him, to shake him for a silly child, a stupid, _stupid_ little boy who was nearly killed. "Robert, how _dare_ you?"

"I'm sorry, Mama." It was not becoming of a boy to snivel. But he was only seven years old and instead of earning her smiles, he nearly died. "I just…"

"It is all right." Igor's voice was steady. He still held the boy, his arm a shield to protect the young viscount from his frantic Mama. He rubbed a thumb under Robert's eyes, across the plump cheek. The single tear disappeared. To prove it, he turned his thumb around, so Robert could see. "See? No sign, all gone."

"Lady Grantham!"

Their noise had attracted the Sumarokov party. Count Nicholas hurried towards them, as quickly as the snow and ice would permit. In his wake, Lidia Niemov and Nashtya trotted from the carriage as fast as shoes and corsets permitted, their faces white with worry.

"Are you deranged?" Count Nicholas skidded to a halt at the edge of the group. His hands dangled in the air, lifting and falling as though he had no idea what to do with them. "My lady.."

"Lady Grantham is perfectly all right." Igor stood up from his crouch beside Robert. He gave the young viscount a pat on the cheek. "And this young man is also quite unharmed."

Violet grabbed Robert. Only when her son's wriggling body, padded with fur but still recognisably hers, pressed through her skirts did she trust Igor's words. She lifted Robert's face to hers. "Robert, that was a terribly, terribly dangerous thing to do."

"My God, I think my soul has vanished from my body." Katya fell back on the bench, her legs giving way from beneath her.

"It was foolish. A boy's impulse." Igor reached out and ruffled the back of Robert's head, making the young boy turn in astonishment. The black eyes grinned down at him, like conspirators in a game. "Next time, you will know better, hmmm?"

"Next time! There will be no next time!" Violet snapped. Igor shrugged.

"Rules must be broken before they can be learnt. Next time, this boy, he will come towards Marengo on quiet feet, yes?" He dropped to a crouch. His face lower than Robert's own, he slipped a wink at the uncertain boy. "Maybe then he will let you on his back and trot?"

"I know how to trot! Papa showed me!"

"Robert!"

But Igor was laughing again. He seemed to delight in the boy, taking up an easy companionship. "What is it you English say? He is a… Bruiser?"

" _Mon Dieu_!" Nashtya, at last with the group, gasped in horror. "What has happened? Violette, you are safe? Katya, my love?"

"Kolya?" Distracted though she was, it did not escape Violet's notice that Lidia Niemov clung at first chance to Count Nicholas's arm. The pretty blonde turned her face up in appeal. "Kolya, what happened?"

"Nothing of importance." Igor cut through the babble of Katya and Nicholas quickly. "Lord Robert, he ran at his Mama and Marengo, he was spooked. But the little lord is safe, yes?"

"Igor saved him!" Katya exclaimed aloud.

" _Vraiment_? Igoryuha, is that _true_?"

"I saw it all!"

"Violette?"

Violet lifted her head from her son's hair. In the jabber and chatter of voices, she had stayed silent. It was enough to hold Robert close and feel his embarrassed wriggle against her skirts, knowing he was safe and well. She met the gaze of Igor. He shifted his shoulders, stamping his feet much like his own stallion when hemmed about by clutching hands. Black eyes snapped at her and she read exasperation in their roll of annoyance.

She put out her hand. Igor hesitated, then took it. Held across her son's head, it was simple gratitude and no more.

"Thank you. I am grateful."

He paused. Then nodded. "It will always be nothing to serve you, Lady Violet."

The second held. Then, as though conscious of the curious eyes darting upon him, he dropped her hand.

"My God!" And the old Kuragin, the showman was back. "Such serious faces. And you!" He chucked Robert under the chin. "White with cold, no? You need hot pastries, Lord Robert. I know Countess Lidia has a sweet tooth. She used to guzzle my wet nurse's _syrniki_ pancakes by the bushel."

The blonde debutante burned with embarrassment at the childish memory. "Not by the bushel!"

"Well, maybe not the bushel." Like Robert before, Kuragin chucked the eighteen year old under her fashionable chin with a grin. "Sumarokov, you shall join us?"

Count Nicholas gaped at the older man's irreverence towards the woman he regarded as an earth-bound angel. But a year in London had quickened his reactions. With only a little stiffness, he clicked his boot-heels and bowed. "If the Prince feels I do not intrude."

"Pastries!" Nashtya reached forward and smacked Kuragin on the arm with her leather-bound book. _Great Expectations_ this time, Violet noticed. "You are rogue, Igoryuha, to think only of your stomach at a time when Violette is shaking from fright."

"Lady Grantham is not so weak willed, I think." The comment was throwaway and he did not look at her. But his voice had taken on that warm note again. Violet's fingers tingled.

"Well I am!" Katya flounced to her friend's side with a theatrical glare. "I will stay with Nashtya and discuss ways to punish you for your uncaring, Igor. Violet, shall you stay?"

"I think I will go with Robert." Violet chose her words carefully. "Kettle, my nursery maid, seems to be busy with Rosamund."

"Ah, the pretty child!" Nashtya softened her angry voice and glanced back to the two children left behind. "Katya, we shall bring Gogo and Rosa to my carriage and, if Violette does not object, we shall read some of my very good book."

"While Igor brings us a penance of pancakes." Katya added, shaking her finger at the black-haired Prince.

"It is settled then, yes? You," Igor glanced down at Robert, who stared up at the dark giant as though he'd seen a ghost. "Lord Robert, you will be our scout."

"Like a soldier?" The words were whispered out as if Robert was afraid speaking them aloud would banish the possibility completely. Violet's heart squeezed in her chest at the hope in her son's face. In London, Robert's favourite treat was to be allowed hold Patrick's army sabre. Normally hung far from the reach of little boys, on the wall of Patrick's study, it was a memory of Patrick's time in the Guards during the Crimean campaign. The blade still held the nicks of battle from Sevastopol and Robert would study each one as though trying to lift the long-dead ghosts of that battle from the metal. Her son wanted nothing more than to follow in his father's boots.

"Very much. You know the way, little fish?"

"Yes!"

"Sumarokov, you will escort Countess Lidia."

It was an undreamed opportunity, something Lidia, with her sudden sunburst smile of understanding, seized quickly. The dogs of etiquette, however, nipped at Count Nicholas's heels.

"It is a duty most strictly given, your Highness, that I, the equerry to the Court of St John, should be escort to the Lady Violet Crawley…"

"For goodness sake, Kolya!" His aunt, distracted from her preparations to return to the carriage across the treacherous snow, lashed out once more with her book. It smacked the Count firmly on the arm. "Violette does not need to endure a schoolboy's English. Walk with Lidia Ivanovna, see if she cannot improve you a little."

Hemmed on all sides, the young Count conceded gratefully. "If the Countess will permit?" He offered Lidia his arm. She seized it as gracefully as a girl in love could.

"Lord Robert first. Sumarokov, you will follow."

"And me?"

Igor turned. The grin turned quiet. He held out his hand. "And you."

Violet slid her hand in his. He tucked her arm in close, as he had before. Her skirts brushed his leather boots. His free hand sheltered over the ridge of her fingers that was not hidden by his arm.

They were last in the little procession, strolling in the rear. Robert raced ahead, his face alight with determination. Every so often, he raced back to walk along with Count Nicholas and Lidia, butting into their conversation, much to Count Nicholas's consternation. Every time he did, Igor chuckled.

Violet raised her eyebrow. "You like children?"

"I do." He broke his grip for a moment, just enough to tip Robert's hat sideways as the young boy raced past them. The cry of protest made him laugh again. "They are easy to please. If you are kind to them, they will like you. It needs no more than that."

His voice was careful. Despite his apparent distraction, he spoke without inflection, not once betraying his thoughts.

"Do you have children of your own?"

The black eyes slid sideways. "You do not know?" His voice held a mocking tinge.

Violet contemplated denying all knowledge. Why feed his ego? But in this fresh air, away from the heated strain of the drawing rooms where every move was watched by a thousand eyes, it did not seem to matter. Besides, he had been honest with her. Honesty deserved honesty.

"Nashtya said some things."

"I can imagine. But she is right. Irina and I have no children."

"Not yet?" Violet offered the modifier.

He shrugged.

"But you, Violet, you have two." He used her name as though they were acquaintances of long-standing. Old friends, even though they had only been introduced three days ago. "Lord Grantham has two children with you." He laughed. It was not _his_ laugh, the laugh that Violet expected from Igor Kuragin. Like before, mockery tinged on it and turned it bitter. "I am jealous."

"Robert and Rosamund. Patrick wished to name him Reginald, after his father. I wanted Robert, for mine." She was prattling now. The reappearance of Igor's black mood was as sudden as a summer's thunderstorm. Violet kept her voice airy but the tension told in her stiffening arm, the careful step to widen the space between them. "Patrick demanded the right to name Rosamund in return."

"You would not have chosen that name."

"No." The danger with prattling, Violet thought, was that sometimes you let slip more than you intended. "I wanted something simpler. Anne."

"Anna." He said it the Russian way, breathing out the first syllable. "I too would like a daughter to call Anna."

His gaze fell on their interlocked arms, Violet's grip looser from her efforts. Without a word, he gently lifted her hand and resettled it on his arm. Again, they stood closer, just brushing propriety. His free hand lay over hers and Violet's skin burned.

They walked on a few paces in silence. Ahead, the kiosk flashed its bright lights. It made a blaze against the white snow, red and yellow panels glittering with embedded mirrors. Robert was already there, at the edge of the crowd. He danced from foot to foot, hopping with impatience.

They did not have much time. If she ever intended to confront Igor - _Kuragin_ , Violet corrected herself - about his… their _encounters_ now would be the best time. They were alone, or as alone as either of them ever would be, and completely from earshot of any curious onlookers.

Violet cleared her throat. "You must stop."

"I?" He turned his gaze from Robert's impatience. "I must stop what, Violet?"

"These…" She cleared her throat again. "These familiarities."

"Because you are a married woman." Her words in his mouth took a faint drawl, a long, lazy hum of ridicule. "You have said, Violet. But look around. We are a man and woman walking in a public park. Even your so _attentive_ husband could not object."

"Patrick is none of your concern." Violet flared back, stung by his insult. Good intentions of maintaining a rational discussion flew away like birds. _How could she expect otherwise_? Her mind sighed. Igor - no, _Kuragin_ \- seemed to burrow under her skin like an infernal flea.

He looked ready to snap back. The black mood brought out his temper, edging it closer to his skin than she had seen before. Then he paused. Jerked his head. In agreement or refusal? "You are right. Why should I care about your husband? I have no interest in him. He is nothing to us."

"There is no us!" The words hissed out. "You flirt with me, infuriate my husband, make… Make _lewd_ comments about my personal parts.."

" _Lewd_?" The word was loud enough to attract a curious glance from a couple passing opposite. With magnificent arrogance, Igor ignored them. He stood his ground, dragging Violet to a stop. "I told you I wanted to kiss you, Violet."

"You said you wanted to discuss my tongue." She snapped.

" _Boch ti moy_! Do you imagine I am a doctor, _solnyshka_? What else could I mean?"

"How do I know?" She snapped, tugging her hand to free it. "You dance around, laughing at me and never once may I be certain what you _do_ mean."

"Don't." His voice was hard as stone. His fingers closed over her pulling hand like a vice. Black eyes glittered with fury.

"Release my hand!" It was not strong enough. The pressure to be quiet and maintain the illusion of a conversation and not a brawl, took the sting from her words.

Her next tug worked. Her hand was free. The sudden chill nipped at her gloved fingers, darting up her arm to prick at the base of her skull. Violet fought the urge to shiver through her fur coat and lifted her chin.

He glared at her. "And you? You hiss like a wet cat if I speak one word to you. You act as prim as a virgin. Then you look at me like you had risen from my bed after a very long night! Tell me, _solnyshka_ , what am I meant to think?"

 _Slap him._ Her mother's voice screeched on the wave of shock. _Slap his face for such an insult!_

A child's shout cut through the maelstrom. The sound pierced Violet's ear. She turned on instinct.

Robert was standing by the kiosk counter. His round boy's face creased in confusion under his fur hat. Blue eyes studied his mother and the big Russian who saved him from the horse. Even as a boy, he could see the friction between the two of them. It scoured the air, sending sparks of anger into the cloudless blue sky.

 _Robert._

Robert had never seen his mother act like this. To him, she had always been the calm, elegant presence who went to balls at his father's side and kissed him good-night before he was sent to bed. To him, his parents were one being: Mama-and-Papa. He had no idea of the state of her marriage, could not contemplate that Mama would ever look beyond his Papa. He was innocent of the adult world.

How could she break that innocence? How could she risk her son and daughter for a few moments of madness?

"I don't know." It was awkward to say the words. They seemed too big for her mouth and her tongue fumbled on their sounds. "I don't know what you think, Prince Kuragin. And that is the problem."

She picked up her muff, slipped her hands inside to hide their shaking. She could not look at him. She could not look up and meet the frustration she knew boiled in his black eyes. Instead, she looked down, like a coward and addressed his fur collar. "Tell me what you mean, Prince Kuragin. Let me know where I stand. Because I cannot play this game any more."

"Violet…"

Violet turned away. When she walked towards Robert, it was with a bright smile pinned to her lips. She opened her arms, ready for his headlong embrace.

"Well, Robert? What is it to be? Pancakes or chestnuts?"

* * *

 **Another very, very long chapter - I'm sorry for the delay in updating but I just couldn't let it go. The next few chapters should be a bit shorter (and posted more quickly, haha!) as we're getting closer to the Royal Wedding!**

 **I know it's a bit of a one-step-forward-two-steps-back progress with Violet and Igor's relationship but I hope some of this chapter will explain Violet's reasons a bit better. I also tried to get the uneven relationship she has with her children out - Violet's not a perfect mother and in the series, Rosamund always struck me as someone who was ignored as a child and acts naughty to get attention.**

 **In this chapter, because we see and imagine everything from Violet's point of view, there's quite a few things left unsaid, particularly for poor old Igor! There is more going on with our Russian prince than Violet can see. Some of it will come out later in the story and maybe in a one-shot or two later.**

 **I hope you enjoyed the chapter - please let me know what you think!**


	16. Chapter 16

**Winter Rose**

* * *

 _Anchikov Palace_

* * *

"Ah. You're back."

Patrick paused at the door of the drawing room. The one sentence was enough to silence the children's excited chatter, turning rosy faces quiet. Instantly, Robert drew himself up from the floor, the wooden Cossack toy dangling in his hand. Rosamund released her mother's skirts, shoving her hands behind her back in guilty dignity.

Violet handed her fur hat to the waiting butler with care.

"Thank you, Arkady. Some tea would be nice."

"Lord Grantham had already ordered tea for the drawing room, my lady."

"Oh?" She turned to her waiting husband. "How thoughtful of you, Patrick."

"Wasn't it?" His voice was dry. "Violet, if I may have a word?"

"Papa." Robert's voice was hesitant, pausing with each word as though he expected to be cut off mid-sentence. "I made a snowman today."

"I helped!"

"No, she didn't, she just stood there and…"

"Kettle."

Patrick's voice rose above the babble. With exquisite care, he straightened the cuff of his shirt. He resettled the face of his signet so the Grantham crest faced upwards.

"I imagine Lord Robert and Lady Rosamund are both a little over-tired after their outing today. Dinner in the nursery and straight to bed, hmmm?"

The wooden Cossack clattered to the floor. Robert's lips worked rebelliously. But he knew his place. A proper soldier took his lumps like a man and not a baby. Not a word passed his lips.

Rosamund, with no toy, had less restraint.

The young girl's pink cheeks screwed up in protest. A glittering tear squeezed between her eyes. "No! I'm not tired!"

It wasn't surprise or even annoyance that narrowed Patrick's eyes as he stared down at his stubborn daughter. It was confusion. He frowned at the tiny child from the distance of the drawing room door and came no closer.

This was her time to intervene. Violet stepped between her child and her husband. "Kettle, Lady Rosamund will need to bathe her face, I think. And a glass of warm milk and sugar to chase off the chill." She raised her eyebrows at the old nurse.

Kettle jumped from her idling. "Of course, my lady." She bobbed a curtsy and seized hold of the little girl's hand. "Now come along, Lady Rosamund. Quick sticks."

Buttressed by three adult wills, Rosamund surrendered to sulky acceptance. Kettle's broad Palm enveloped one tiny sticky hand. With the other, the nurse gestured to Robert. "Lord Robert."

"Go with Kettle, Robert." Violet dropped to her knees beside her young son. She slipped the wooden Cossack into his hand. Her shoulder, turned away from Patrick, hid the smile. "And be careful with your toys. You must not chip the paint."

"No, Mama."

The little boy hesitated. Then, in perfect imitation of his father, Viscount Downton dropped a peck on his mother's cheek. "Good night, Mama. Good night, Papa."

Something in her brother's dignified retreat set off a wave of contrition in Rosamund. The little girl wrenched her hand from Kettle's grip. With a sob, she flung her chubby arms around her mother's cinched waist.

"Good night, Mama!"

The unexpected attack made Violet stiffen, just for a second. She lay an awkward hand on her daughter's back. The other smoothed the red-gold curls from Rosamund's flushed forehead. It was not easy to love prickly, ever-changing Rosamund. It was too much like trying to love a younger version of herself.

"Good night, Rosamund. Go with Kettle now."

"Come away, Lady Rosamund. Time for nursery."

The tiny fingers unclenched from Violet's heavy silk skirts, leaving creases and wrinkles in their wake. Rosamund scrubbed an arm across her face, as the other hand wavered in the air. The stout nursery maid, Robert attached to her other hand, took the hot little fingers firmly. "Now. Are we ready?"

Without waiting for a reply, Kettle dropped another curtsy in the direction of the drawing room. "Apologies for the fuss and bother, my Lord."

Patrick nodded, his shoulders stiff with discomfort. He remained silent as the children were herded from the hallway, Kettle the mob-capped sheepdog nipping at their heels. When the door was closed, he raised his eyebrows at his wife, still kneeling on the floor.

Violet took a deep breath. She rose to her feet, shaking that silk skirts free of creases. In the mirror in front of her, she caught her husband's eye. "Arkady mentioned tea?"

It was less uncomfortable, it seemed, for Patrick to be discovered staring at his wife than his children. Not a flicker disturbed the Earl's austere face. "Of course."

The piece of paper disappeared into the pocket of his waistcoat. A brush of irritation scraped Violet like iron bristles. She hated Patrick's instinctive secrecy. Little annoyed her more than to be left guessing in the dark.

She followed Patrick into the wide drawing room, tugging her gloves from her fingers. The drawing room had no fireplace but the stove, squatting in the corner of the room, kept the room warm. Not like Downton, where one could not help but a shiver every time one left the dining room for tea.

In the centre of the room, a silver tea set was laid out on the centre table. Russian habits had intruded on this English custom enough that crumpets were replaced with pancakes. The same, Violet noticed, as Robert had eaten in the Summer Gardens. She took her seat on the lounge opposite.

Patrick took the facing chair. He waited in silence as Arkady poured the tea from the silver pot and handed the first cup to Violet. Mindful of the ritual of the drawing room, Violet reached across the table to offer the cup to her husband. He accepted. Only then did she accept her own cup from Arkady's waiting fingers.

When the butler finally bowed and withdrew, Patrick spoke.

"You went out this afternoon? With the children?"

Violet did not miss the faint note of incredulity in his words. Her temper ruffled, like a cat whose fur was brushed backwards. The confrontation in the park left her nerves on edge. She was ready to pick any battle, even on the faintest nuance in hopes of relief.

"Is that so astonishing? I do enjoy their company."

"I thought you would have been too busy. Fittings and so forth."

"I spent the morning being fitted for the wedding." And what a morning _that_ was. "I felt both I and the children deserved some fresh air."

"Hmmm."

Agreement or not? Approval or not? Patrick disliked to commit himself. Violet hid her own tightening lips with a decorous sip of the tea.

"Did you have a good day?"

"I?"

"I understood from Matlock you left early to attend the palace."

"You enquired about me?" He seemed surprised again.

"Naturally." Violet kept her voice cool. "I was curious when you were not here."

"You missed me." He seemed to toy with the idea in his mind. "How curious. And flattering." For a moment a small smile played on his lips. Patrick was a man of small gestures.

The smile disappeared again. "I trust you did not go out alone?"

"I was with Kettle and the children."

It was childish, to return such a deliberately facetious answer. And childish to bait Patrick. Her own bad temper was no reason to try and incite her husband's anger.

Violet curbed her tongue and forced a smile. she elaborated her answer. "I drove out with Katya - Princesss Dolgorukov. She has a son a few years younger than Robert. We went to the Summer Gardens for an impromptu picnic."

"Hence the chatter about snowmen."

"Indeed."

Patrick took a bite of pancake. She sipped her tea and tried not to grimace. The Chinese leaves tasted of flowers. They lacked a refreshing bite. Strange. She always drank Chinese tea in London and never noticed the difference.

"I wish you would not call him that."

The unexpected pronouncement made her blink. "Who, Patrick?"

"Robert. He is Viscount Downton, not a stable boy."

"You wish me to address my own son by his title?"

"It is an idea that has crossed my mind. The boy is getting older. He is what - eight years old?"

"In a few months time, yes."

"He will be going to Eton soon. It is best he grows accustomed to his new position. How others will view him."

"I don't quite understand your meaning, Patrick." That he could sit there so calmly, spouting such a ridiculous statement, Violet could not believe. "It is immaterial to me how others should view him. I see Robert as my son."

"As do I. I merely take a broader view. He must be prepared for the world. It does not do to coddle the boy."

Violet swallowed the mouthful of tea before she choked.

She _should_ be angry. Patrick's unexpected offensive, all the more unexpected for the kindness he had shown since coming to Russia, attacked her at her weakest spot: her children. Violet knew she was not a natural mother. Experience had taught her that. She was awkward and distant, unsure how to interact with them. It had taken effort to connect with them, even Robert who was so earnest and well-behaved he was easy to love. And to be now reprimanded for being too informal…!

But she could not. Her anger needed action. She needed to throw something, to hammer her feet on the floor, and shout, and scream. She needed to burn out the nerves that still thrummed inside her stomach. She needed a temper to match her own.

Patrick's studied, carefully-weighed sentences only deadened the sparks tingling under her skin. It was like an ice shower had settled over her. Duty, and, its ever-present friend, decorum, stilled her hands from launching the delicate cup against the tiled stove in the far corner. It turned her anger to poison on her tongue.

"Do I coddle you, _Patrick_? Should I call you 'Grantham' as your mother does your father?"

"Of course not." He looked ruffled at the thought. His dark eyebrows drew together. "But we are husband and wife, Violet. Robert is my heir."

"I see. Tell me, Patrick. Did _your_ mother address you by your title?"

"Naturally. Since I can remember."

"And how often do you visit her now? I forget."

"It is _not_ …" He paused.

Patrick did not snap. It was too early for that, Violet thought. He never lost his control unless helped by wine or brandy. He replaced his tea-cup on the silver tray. The porcelain tinged against the metal.

"Such conduct is not becoming of your position."

"As you wife or your Countess? Or the mother of your children?"

"It is not becoming." He ignored her question. "You seem… Unsettled somehow. You have been since we arrived."

"A change of perspective, perhaps." Violet coated the suggestion in sweetness. "A broader view?"

"More than that. I have not seen you like this since…"

He fell silent. That day was not mentioned between them. It was one of the few things left in their marriage upon which they both agreed.

"You have become different since we arrived in this city." He finished.

Violet's heart tripped.

She had nothing of which to be ashamed, she reminded herself, setting down her own cup. Nothing. A walk in the park, what was that? A conversation at a party? And Patrick himself had asked Igor to help her at the ball.

No. Not Igor. Remember. It was _Prince Kuragin_. Distance bred indifference.

"Perhaps it is you, Patrick, who has become different."

 _When reason fails, use force_.

"What an interesting thought."

Violet bit down on the urge to shift guiltily in her chair. Patrick had a trick of watching her in silence, his eyes drifting about her countenance like the brush of a feather duster. She had always found the sensation distinctly uncomfortable. It brought to mind her infrequent childhood journeys to her father's study to be reprimanded for some petty crime or other.

"You had a letter?" She changed the subject abruptly.

His hand went automatically to the pocket of his waistcoat. "In a manner of speaking, yes." The musing note disappeared from his voice. He was business again, a "career" man on the make.

"An invitation. Prince Kuragin is as good as his word."

He handed her the crumpled invitation. The invite, directed to the Earl and Countess of Grantham, was inscribed in faultless calligraphy. Violet scanned the lines quickly and frowned.

"I do not see an address?"

"There is none. A man of mystery."

Violet lifted her head. The sour note was new in Patrick's voice. He frowned at the invitation in her hands as though it were a snake.

"But how are we to know where to go?"

"God knows. Kuragin orders us to be ready at a certain hour with no indication of where we are to go or how we are to get there. Ridiculous!"

There was more than just irritation in Patrick's voice. Violet folded the invitation carefully, the better to hide her nerves. What trick had fate played now that the very afternoon she confronted Igor about their… And then to force herself into his company once more? She had hoped for a day or two, to collect herself and to let distance smooth over their frayed nerves. Whatever Igor imagined was between them was not real or concrete. It was a result of too much time in each other's company, the curse of having mutual acquaintances. Time apart would bring her… _him_ to his senses.

Surely. It must.

"But, of course, we must attend." Patrick made an impatient gesture. "It would be construed as an insult to the Tsar if we did not. Good God, but these Russians are impossible at times. Half of them seem to imagine we are still fighting that blasted war in the Balkans."

"You think this is an insult? Or a trick?" Violet could not keep the scepticism from her voice. A flare of resentment straightened her spine at Patrick's casual assumption.

"I would not put it past the man."

"Patrick, you have scarcely exchanged three words with him! Surely, this is simply what it appears. Just another part of the wedding celebrations. An impromptu one, I admit. But nothing more than that."

"I don't trust him. He may be a Prince but, my God, the man is no gentleman! If you heard what is said at Court…"

He stopped. His mouth shut like a trap, the skin whitening along his compressed lips.

Violet sat as still as a rabbit in a trap.

"Well." Patrick recovered himself. "As I say, we cannot refuse."

"Take comfort." Her hands shook but her voice, when she spoke, was steady, even sarcastic. The old, warring Violet. "With half the Russian Court and all of the English guests invited, we are unlikely to be blessed with much more than a few second of the Kuragins' company."

"That is one of the few good elements of this evening, I assure you."

Patrick rose up from his chair. "If you will excuse me, Violet, I think I will rest for an hour or two before we must leave. Or whatever the Prince has planned for us to do."

He nodded a farewell that Violet returned. He began to make his way over to the door of the drawing room. Violet waited for the twist and click of the door handle.

She turned. Patrick had paused by the door, standing still. He turned back and on his face, a small smile gentled the harsh jut of his brow.

"You should have told me you missed skating, Violet. If I had known, I would have arranged it for you."

"I.. I did not want to bother you. It seemed a very small thing, not important."

Patrick raised his eyebrows. "It seemed important enough to Kuragin. Why should it not be more important still to me? Your husband?"

 _That,_ Violet thought, as Patrick shut the door of the drawing room behind him, _is the very question that I have been asking myself all day._

* * *

 **Hello! I'm sorry I haven't updated in ages... I got a little stuck on a chapter of another story I'm working on and then I struggled a bit with this one too.**

 **I hope you enjoyed this chapter, even if it's not as high -drama as when Violet and Igor get together (bit like the respective relationships really, haha). I wanted to show a bit of Patrick's point of view - he's not a complete villain (we'll save that one for Hepworth) just very human and flawed. It's like Violet commented in the show: He hid his good qualities very deeply beneath the attitude of a 'proper Englishman'.**

 **Well, enough of my ramblings. I hope you enjoyed the chapter and please feel free to comment! I'd love to know what people think of the triangle developing and Violet's interaction with her children!**


	17. Chapter 17

**Winter Rose**

* * *

It was the third time Patrick had checked his pocket watch. Then the mantel clock. Then the door. And then cleared his throat.

Violet turned her page.

The mantel clock chimed eight.

"This is ridiculous."

The Earl of Grantham took up his sherry glass. He dashed the contents back in a single gulp.

That was the third glass.

"He seeks to make a fool of us."

Violet did not need to ask who _he_ was.

"The invitation was for eight o'clock. The clock has only just struck now."

It wasn't enough. Violet set her book aside with a sigh. If they were to attend this party at all, it was best that Patrick was in a civil mood when they arrived. The last thing anyone needed as a bout of verbal fisticuffs between the Russian and English parties.

Or physical fisticuffs, come to that.

"I wonder who will attend." She rose up from the lounge. Her heeled boots scarcely made a sound on the thick Astrakhan rug. Standing by the fireplace, close enough to burn her skirts, she drew Patrick's eye and attention. She knew that and took advantage of it. Better that she distract him from his own bad temper before it spilled out. "The Prince of Wales, naturally."

"I dare say." Patrick was not so easily cajoled. Still. He had put down the sherry glass. His fingers braced and tapped the French-carved side table, even if his expression was inscrutable.

"Most of our party will attend, I think. I know Lady Argyll has the head-ache, so we will be one lady down."

"I am sure the Russians will easily make up the difference."

A response. _At last_ , Violet thought. It took a strong effort not to roll her eyes to the heavens in exasperation.

"I dare say. I know Nashtya will attend…"

"Nashtya?"

"Princess Sumarokov. Count Sumarokov's aunt-by-marriage."

"Ah, yes. One of your Russian friends."

"I hope you approve of _her_?" Violet kept her voice light.

"Have I a reason not to do so?"

"Apart from an alarming love of Charles Dickens, I don't see why not. But then, I am not privy to the rumours at Court."

A rumble from the street outside the window cut short any retort that sprang to Patrick's lips. Shouts drew Patrick and Violet's attention to the door. The sharp tap of shoes grew louder in the corridor beyond the drawing room door. Arkady, unobtrusive in the corner, jumped to life. On silent feet, he glided to the drawing room entrance.

Through the opening crack, harsh whispers were traded between the butler and his underlings. Observing the scene in the reflection of the mirror, Violet saw a look of surprise cross Arkady's face.

Patrick frowned and turned back to the scene. "What is going on over there?"

"I would tell you, Patrick, if I had sufficient knowledge of Russian to decipher it." Violet softened the acerbity with a smile, enough to convey that she spoke as a joke.

Arkady finally hissed the last orders through the door, to be met with silence. Silence being consent, Violet supposed. He closed the door with a gentle click and hastened to the centre of the room.

"Lord and Lady Grantham…"

"Yes, Arkady, what is it?" Patrick turned around in his chair.

The butler bowed. "Prince Kuragin sends his compliments, Lord Grantham. He has sent transport to bring you to the _soirée_."

" _What_?"

A hiss issued from the other side of the door. Arkady threw a harried look backward, the first time Violet had seen him so distressed. "If you please…"

The drawing room door opened once more. In the gap, a tall young man stood. An enormous dark moustache draped on either side of his mouth, the tips elaborately waxed to sharp points. Under a heavy black sheep-skin cloak, loose red breeches billowed from his hips to the tight leather of his boots. Under the cloak, an embroidered waistcoat flashed bright red and green. His head was covered with a large fur hat, adding several inches to his height. He bowed to the astonished Earl and Countess with an elegant flourish.

"I have come. My Prince, he has sent me for the English Lord and Lady. We go."

"Good heavens." Violet whispered.

Dark eyes, astonishingly like Igor's, raked over her at the sound. He bowed once more. "My Prince waits. He says: Fetch Lady Grantham."

And despite her irritation, despite her surprise, Violet could not help but smile. She knew then that this man most certainly came from Igor. None other would command a Countess in such a fashion.

"Well, if the Prince demands.." Patrick rose to his feet. The scowl was on his face once more. He held out his arm for Violet.

Arkady shot a few words at the impassive giant. The costumed man shrugged in reply. He clicked his heels and bowed again. "Yes. We go." He dug in his waistcoat and dragged a letter from an inner pocket. As Violet drew nearer, he held it out to her. "Please. I give to Lady Grantham."

Patrick turned in surprise. "A message? From Kuragin?"

"From the Princess." Violet lied quickly. "I imagine some notice about the wedding."

"Ah." They descended the stairs in the giant's wake, out towards the front door. Footmen waited at the head of the hall, skating-boots and fur coats to hand. "Is she in the Grand Duchess's train or some such thing?"

"Some such thing." Violet tucked the note into her muff. She accepted her skating boots from the footman with a smile. The fuss of dressing for a Russian January was enough to distract Patrick from the uncomfortable topic. When they stepped outside the front door, there was another.

"Good God! What is _that_?"

On the street below, a carriage stood waiting to take them to the party. Four horses, prancing from the cold, snorted heavy bursts of white into the night air. The coachman was as heavily furred as their tall escort and dressed in similar costume, the red breeches peeking from between dark bear fur. But instead of wheels, the carriage seemed to be built upon enormous flat planks.

" _Da_." Satisfaction coloured their escort's voice. The waxed tips of his moustache curled up in a smile. "My Prince sends his sled for the English Lord and Lady. It is beautiful."

It was. Gilded panels glittered in the torches of the footmen, depicting a crest Violet did not recognise. It was covered, this coach or sled or whatever it was, and inside the seats were encased in red velvet. As the footmen opened the door, furs spilled negligently to the floor, a fortune in money tossed about as casually as a three-penny rug. A single lamp shone, casting a subdued light over the interior.

"Well we won't have to worry about catching cold at least." Patrick clambered into the depths.

"No, indeed." Violet sat into the corner of the carriage, bundled up in a lake of warmth. "Do you think it goes very fast?"

"I imagine it must fly over the snow. Faster than wheels at any rate. More reliable too in this weather. My God, it's snowing again!"

Outside, the whip cracked in the night air. Patrick tilted his head, interested in the new style of driving but constrained by etiquette. A shout in Russian pulled his gaze out the window.

Violet took her chance. She slipped the note from her muff and broke the seal. A broad scrawl dominated the tiny slip of paper.

 _We must talk._

Violet bit her lip. She had wanted a conclusion. Goodness knows, she had demanded it that very afternoon. Now, with this note, she knew that conclusion was in sight. It should give her relief.

"Violet, you must look up. See how fast this is!"

Patrick turned and smiled at his wife. Lost in the joy of the moment, his face glowed like a boy's. For a minute, Violet thought she saw Robert in his father's face. Her heart jumped and it was as though every feeling in the past eight years squeezed against her throat. Every second of nine years of marriage.

She glanced down again. The black ink was stark against the white note paper.

 _We must talk._

She knew in her mind that she was secure in the carriage, that whatever speed they moved at, _she_ sat still. But when Violet read over those three words again, she felt as though the carriage floor was sand beneath her feet, pulling away from her and tugging her towards a future she could not control.

They could have been in the carriage for minutes or months. Violet could not tell. It seemed mere seconds before they were slowing down, caught in the traffic of other carriages and sleds. Lifting her head, she glanced out the window.

"What is this place?"

"I'm not sure." Patrick was looking out the other window, a frown marring his own face. "I haven't seen this place before."

The carriage drew to a final stop. A thump and crunch to the front indicated that their escort had dismounted from his perch. The red-breeches giant intercepted a footman coming their way, torch held high. A hurried whisper under the Crawleys' curious eyes and the footman was off, slip-sliding over the snow and gravelled path. Their escort turned back to the carriage and opened the door.

"Welcome." He said simply.

Violet took Patrick's hand and stepped down into fairy-land.

Lights were strung from a hundred trees and bushes lining the garden paths. Braziers, glowing with heat, smoked the air with scents of fir cones and apple wood. A white canopy covered each pathway, shielding the guests from the snow drifting from the dark night sky. Every path led to the round centre and in the centre there was the lake.

In summer, it would be big enough for boating. One could easily imagine the water dotted with small pleasure craft, the sailors waving to family and friends picnicking on the shoreline. Now, however, it was frozen solid and under the command of Prince Kuragin had been transformed into an icy ballroom for the great and good of Petersburg to whirl about in abandon.

Benches clustered around the shore edge. The wooden jetty that, in another time, would serve as a pier for boats, were crowded with musicians. As far as Violet could see, Igor had done his best to cram a full orchestra on the ornamental structure. Most of the lake lay uncovered to the night's sky but enough was enclosed for a bevy of couples to dance in circles without fear of wet snow. Footmen circled the guests, carrying trays of champagne flutes and tiny glasses of a clear liquid Violet had never seen before.

The air was filled with chatter and music, a hundred voices mingling with the smoke rising up to the sky. They could not have been much more than a few miles from the centre of Petersburg but here, the night was still as though they were in the heart of the Russian forest.

"Violette! _Chérie_ , you are here!"

The faint lines in Nashtya's face deepened and curved with pleasure. Resplendent in pale blue and silver, she moved through the crush of people like an unstoppable wave. Seconds later, Violet understood why. Clinging to each arm of the petite princess, Lidia Niemov and Count Nicholas Sumorokov provided Nashtya with a human bulwark.

Coming closer to the English couple, Nashtya shook off her young companions with an imperious wave of her hand. She bent Violet down, landing three warm kisses on the Countess's cheeks. "It is good you have come, Violette. This is the event of the season, _n'est-ce pas_?"

"It certainly attracted a large audience for such short notice." Violet returned the kisses, slipping her hands into the Princess's grip. She glanced over Nashtya's shoulder and raised her eyebrow at the illicit tryst.

The Princess caught her look and laughed. "So you too must scold me? Can an old woman not amuse herself a little?"

"Is that what you call it?"

The Princess shrugged. "It, how you say, puts spice in the life. One can be so dull without spice." Her eyes drifted over to Patrick. For a moment, they narrowed, so quickly Violet was not even certain of Nashtya's expression. Then a charming smile wreathed her face.

"So! The husband of my lovely Violette!" She put forward her two hands. Surprised from his reserve, Patrick took them up before he even realised he was doing it. "The so-English Earl. I have heard so much."

Patrick remembered his etiquette enough to bow over the gloved hands in his own. "I regret I cannot say the same, Princess. My wife has been too reticent in her friends."

"Oh, I have heard nothing from Violette." Nashtya tilted her head, the smile still in place. "But others talk."

Before Patrick could speak, Nashtya had turned back to her companions. She waved the young people forward, her hand beating the air like a fan in her haste.

Caught out from the private conversation, the two nobles hurried to the Princess's bidding. A high blush stained Lidia Niemov's cheeks, a pretty contrast with her rose velvet suit. The same blush, to a less becoming effect, scalded the skin of Count Nicholas's face. Polite nods were exchanged between the group. Count Nicholas made a point to disengage his arm from Lidia Niemov and stood a little aside, adjusting his collar as though it bit into his neck.

"You know my nephew, of course." Nashtya kept her eyes on Patrick, a hawk in sky-blue velvet. She patted the Count's arm. "Kolya was attached to Count Brunnov's delegation in London."

If she thought to wrong-foot Patrick, she was wide of the mark. The Earl of Grantham had wended his way through too many diplomatic events to be caught out. Particularly when the attack was so brutally straightforward.

"Of course I remember Count Sumarokov. He delivered such interesting lectures on Peter the Great throughout our voyage here." Patrick's smile was all sincerity. As far as Violet could remember, her husband had not attended one lecture, no matter the subject.

The Count, equally well aware of this, had the sense to bow in return. "The Earl of Grantham is too good."

"Not at all."

"Too good." Nashtya gave her sweetest smile.

An awkward silence fell. The crowds moved around them. Curious glances darted back to Nashtya and the Crawleys. Whispers giggled behind gloves. In Petersburg, as in cities all over the globe, gossip was the fuel that made all such events run smooth. To the gleaming smiles of Petersburg's elite, the small group provided it in plenty, little though they realised it.

"This is such a wonderful party!" Lidia Niemov broke the gathering frost with a bright smile. "My father told me Igor Sergeyevich has rented some gypsies to play for us and dance. There will even be fireworks!"

"Fireworks!" Violet knew she sounded like an empty-headed parrot, echoing the younger girl. But Lidia offered a lifeline out of the tension that started brewing between Nashtya and Patrick. "How lovely!"

"Yes." That nod was far too vigorous to be natural. "And, of course, the food will be lovely. Have you tried our Russian desserts, Lord Grantham?"

"I don't think…"

"Oh, then you must! Igor Sergeyevich _promised_ that he would have _syrniki_ pancakes…" She trailed off, with an embarrassed glance towards Count Nicholas. Evidently she still remembered the teasing Igor had given her earlier about her preference for the sweet pancakes.

"How lovely!" Violet knew she sounded like a ninny now but it could not be helped. She looked up to her husband, smiling. "Shall we see what is on offer, Patrick?"

Now attacked from the side as well as the front, Patrick gave his wife a frown. Violet pressed him arm, hoping he would understand her meaning. It would not do to give Nashtya further opportunities to antagonise him.

"It would be a pity to miss such a good sweet."

For a moment she thought he would refuse. Then, he did something unexpected.

He dropped his hand over hers and squeezed.

"An excellent idea, Violet." He turned to Lidia Niemov with a gallantry that Violet only remembered from her debut, when Patrick first started courting her. "Perhaps the Countess will be kind enough to escort us?"

The young blonde had enough polish to hide her own startled look at Patrick's arm held out to her. She accepted the invitation with a smile. "I would be pleased, Lord Grantham. I understand you have much knowledge of English politics? My father, he finds the English very admirable in their parliament."

The small party proceeded through the crowd. Sumarokov trailed behind Lidia and Patrick. Violet took Nashtya's arm to bring up the rear. She threw a glance at Patrick's back. Certain she would not be observed, she bent down by the Princess's ear.

"What are you thinking?"

"I do not understand your meaning, Violette." Nashtya feigned innocence. Violet was not fooled. Their friendship was brief but it had given her enough insight to Nashtya Sumarokov to know when the petite Russian was lying.

"You know precisely what I mean. What are you thinking, to try and provoke my husband like that?"

"I, provoke? I merely repeat the truth, my Violette. I have heard much about the Earl of Grantham from other people."

"I can imagine who those _other people_ are and I can assure you…"

Nashtya cut Violet short abruptly. "Ah, Count Tolstoy! _Bon soir_! You are here as well?"

Her call was loud enough to draw the attention of several people around them, as well as Patrick and Lidia Niemov. The dark-haired count bowed at the burst of attention.

"Excellency. Lady Grantham." The strangely light blue eyes glittered in the torchlight, as piercing and restless as Violet recalled. "Please, permit me to introduce my wife, Sophia Tolstaya."

"Charmed." Nashtya put out her hand. The sharp-nosed young woman nodded and shook the Princess's hand gently. Her eyes turned to Violet. Much like her husband before her, Sophia Tolstaya studied Violet's face with a darting curiosity before bobbing another curtsy.

"Lady Grantham."

"Countess Tolstaya." Violet smiled. "It is a pleasure to meet you at last."

"Yes, Leo has told me of your first meeting at the Princess's _salon_."

"He has." Violet glanced at the silent Count. A small smile played on his lips even as he studied her. In another man, Violet would nearly pin his attention down to flirtation, perhaps desire. But there was nothing in his gaze to suggest that Count Tolstoy was remotely intrigued in that fashion. "How interesting."

"Yes, he has told me that you were interested in his writing. Perhaps you will be so good to read some of his new pages?"

"I was. But I understood that Count Tolstoy has been having difficulty of late?"

Sophia turned to her husband, a frown creasing her smooth forehead. A few Russian words flew between them. The Count shrugged and waved his hand. He smiled at Violet.

"Lady Grantham is kind to worry. But it is passed, I assure you. I have," He patted his wife's hand with pride. "A little idea."

"I look forward to reading it."

"I think you will enjoy, Lady Grantham."

"Violette, we should go and find you some skates, yes?" Nashtya's patience never lasted long. She dropped a vague smile on the Tolstoys. "Count, you will bring your so charming wife to my _salon_ next week?"

Count Tolstoy bowed in agreement. Nashtya swept Violet away before much more could be said. She marched the Englishwoman past the refreshments, ignoring both Patrick and her own two companions.

Violet made a half-hearted attempt to break loose. "Nashtya, you should not be so rude."

"I?" It wasn't just innocence that rounded and widened Nashtya's eyes. It was surprise. "What have I done? They do not mind. I was perfectly polite."

"You dragged me away in the middle of a conversation. That is perfectly wrong."

"I am never wrong. It is only required that everyone else modify their views to mine."

The bold statement startled Violet into a laugh. "You cannot be so contrary!"

"Princess Nashtya is a woman." A new voice interrupted them from the ice. "She has every right to be contrary."

Igor Kuragin, bundled in fur, swept to a halt by the lake side edge. The black mood of earlier seemed lifted somehow. He smiled again to both women. The black eyes met Violet's gaze.

"Do you not enjoy that too, Lady Grantham?"

"Having never had the opportunity to being anything else, Prince Kuragin, I dare not answer."

"So, Violette was contrary even in her cradle!" Nashtya was all smiles once more. The appearance of the Prince seemed to recall her to her good humour. Perhaps, Violet thought, because they were both one of a kind.

Nashtya raised her eyebrows to Igor. "So, Igoryuha. You have abandoned your party for us?"

"But you are my party." The skates made lazy _skirrs_ along the ice as the Prince kept his balance. The devil danced in his eyes. "It would not take place but for Lady Grantham."

"As I recall, it would not have taken place but for the orders of your Tsar." Violet wished she had a fan. It would give her fingers something with which to fidget while she stood there. She never knew what to do with her hands when she was nervous.

She smoothed the skirts of her coat with her free hand. "The Princess is not with you, Prince Kuragin?"

He raised an eyebrow as if to say: _You will not avoid me so easily._ "Irina is busy. We have many guests."

"And yet you avoid them?"

"I have done enough for now. Irina must practice her charms on the Tsarevitch Alexander." He shrugged. "My opinions and my presence would be out of place."

"The man is an autocrat in the making and as rough as a serf." Nashtya sniffed. "I am surprised Irina tolerates him."

If he was uncomfortable with Nashtya's bluntness, Igor gave no obvious sign. He made another shrug, shorter this time, a quick raising and dropping of the shoulders. "We are loyal subjects. Yes?"

"Oh we are all loyal subjects! But-" Nashtya caught her tongue. She seemed to remember where she was: in public, under the eyes of Petersburg. She shook her head. "But I talk politics at a party. That is very bad, no? My late husband used to scold me for that, many times."

"I think you shock Lady Grantham."

"I think you must see me as a very feeble woman, Prince Kuragin, if you imagine I am so easily shocked."

"No?" Distracted, Igor folded his arms, tilted his head to one side. His voice changed. It was no longer cautious and stiff. Instead, it warmed, his Russian accent grower more distinct, clipping at his words. His smile curved. "I thought that the English favoured silence on such matters? It is the more useful."

"You must consider us like sheep, Prince Kuragin."

"Sheep, no. Lambs…" He raised his hands.

"I am sure you have heard of the parable of the wolf in lamb's clothing?"

"So you are not what you appear, then, Lady Grantham?"

"And how do I appear to you, Prince Kuragin?"

For a moment, Violet thought he would reach out for her. He had moved closer, the skating blades wedging on the lake shore. He was only a foot or two away. She could see the water drops sparkling on the fur of his hat, the melted remains of snow. Despite the cold, Igor had unbuttoned the top of his coat, leaving his chin and the top of his neck bare to the night wind. She could nearly trace the movement of his breath, the inhale and exhale and the rumble of his swallow. She wanted to and the thought embarrassed her, sending her fingers to shield her own throat. How could she want to quarrel with this man one minute and the next want run her fingers down his cheek and test the smooth skin for the stubble that had only recently been shaved away?

She flushed. Her fingers braced lightly against her throat where the blood pulsed fast. She cleared her throat and the sensation shook her fingers.

"Well?"

He watched her fingers, studying the impromptu shield she made. The diamond of her engagement ring flashed in the torchlight.

"I think you appear as the Countess of Grantham. Young and beautiful. And imperious."

"Imperious! Gracious. Very much the grand lady. You make me sound like a paragon."

"I hope I do not. I dislike paragons." _Skirr, skirr_ went his skates across the ice. He swayed backwards and forwards on the ice, his eyes not leaving hers. "They do not interest me."

" _Mon Dieu_!"

Violet jumped. She had forgotten completely about Nashtya, standing by their side. The petite Princess clapped her hands and shook her head in mock reprimand at the two of them, her eyes dancing with unholy pleasure. "You two! _Igoryuha moya_ , you should take Violette on a round of lake if you intend to monopolise her conversation so much."

"Nashtya, you are a fool so often I forget that you have a brain under your pretty hat."

Igor put out his hand then and it was for her. "Will you, Lady Grantham?"

"I should not abandon my party."

"Ah." The Prince nodded. His gaze lifted from her face to look beyond her shoulder. His lips twisted a little and turned mocking. "But they are entertained. Even Lord Grantham has found something in Russia to his taste."

She would not look back. She would not give Igor the satisfaction of proving his point so easily. Patrick might aggravate her. His infidelities hurt her. But for all the world to know, they were content together and she had no reason to look elsewhere.

That she was agreeing to skate _à deux_ with a man who made his own disregard for the institution of marriage as abundantly clear as he made his desire for her…company was a matter Violet did not choose to address. Not at this moment.

She laid her hand in his. The leather glove was slippery to touch, and bulky with sheep's wool. She was able to pretend it was not really his hand at all.

Until his fingers closed over hers and guided her to the nearby bench to change her boots. And stood there. Waiting.

It was a wonder the serving boy ever managed to slip her distracted foot into the bladed boots.

With the final adjustments made, Igor held out his hand again. The orchestra had changed its tunes. The whirling mazurkas turned dreamy and slow. The three-beat time of the waltz made partners spin and the torch light dance.

Violet took his hand and set her foot on the ice.

* * *

 **Hello! I'm sorry about such a wait between chapters - I know I promised shorter chapters more quickly but this one just wouldn't stop! Igor has clearly made up his mind about something but keep an eye on our other characters - there's more going on than Violet can see just yet.** **I hope you enjoy it and please let me know what you think!**


	18. Chapter 18

**Winter Rose**

* * *

 _Nashtya clapped her hands and shook her head in mock reprimand at the two of them, her eyes dancing with unholy pleasure. "You two!_ Igoryuha moya, _you should take Violette on a round of lake if you intend to monopolise her conversation so much."_

 _Igor put out his hand then and it was for her. "Will you, Lady Grantham_?"

 _Violet took his hand and set her foot on the ice._

* * *

At first, they skated in silence.

Around, couples span, blades flashing in the light of a thousand torches. The hum of chatter murmured in the air, laughter breaking through only dimly. It was one skate in front of the other, so effortless Violet could scarcely catch her breath. Just as she remembered. The speed of moving made every bone feel like quicksilver, shimmering with grace.

It was only when Igor switched sides, moving so he skated flush beside her, her arm pulled across his chest and the bump of her skirts against his hip that Violet noticed how far they had gone together. They had moved beyond the shelter of the canvas cover, skating into the shaded light of the lake. Rings of torches around the shore gave a soft glow to the ice. Crystals glittered in the frosty air. The puff of their breaths rose and mingled, indistinguishable from each other as they faded into the night sky.

She had to speak. It would seem strange if she did not. Others would see the Countess of Grantham skating with Prince Kuragin, a stupid smile on her face, and draw entirely the wrong conclusions. Worse, they would draw the correct conclusion. But that was something Violet was not prepared to admit, most certainly not aloud.

"We are alone now, Prince Kuragin."

"I know, _solnyskha_."

His grip tightened on her waist. She could feel the extra pressure even through the layers of silk and fur and corset. They slowed, turned a long curve to avoid rough ice. The movement disguised his closeness, the brim of his hat bending to touch hers. His breath tickled Violet's frozen cheek and she could smell sweet wine and tobacco from his lips.

"You received my note?"

"I did."

"We must talk."

" _Here_?"

They were reaching the farthest corner of the lake now. In the shadows between the torches, Violet could see servants standing by. Each one was armed with a brush, ready to clear the ice if the threatened snow grow too thick for the few skaters who ventured this far.

In the dimly lighted space, passing skaters appeared like dark boulders whizzing nearby. Their features and clothes were indistinguishable until they were nearly upon Violet and Igor and then they sped past, their eyes slitted half-shut against the gentle snow.

It was only then that Violet realised how much they had slowed from their original speed. Their progress was lazy and slow. They swayed forward, moving only enough so as not to draw attention to their conversation. To an onlooker, their quiet murmurs may be instruction as much as flirtation. Igor seemed to have the same thought.

"Your frown is good _solnyshka_." Laughter bubbled under his whisper. His hand tightened around her waist as though she were a limp vine to wrap around a support. "The others will be sure that I must reprimand you for your technique."

"I did not think an instructor required such close contact, your highness!" Violet's hand flew to his waist and praised her fingers under his. She only succeeded in forcing his hand lower, to curve on the hint of her hips. Not necessarily an improvement for propriety.

"You are a very bad pupil, Violet."

"Perhaps that should reflect on my tutor, your highness."

"Still, you insist?"

"We are acquaintances."

"And you insist on that too?"

"Have you given me reason to think otherwise?"

On the far side of the lake, under the canopy of canvas, the noise rose. Servants hurtled across the ice, dodging between the laughing guests. Tables were moved aside. The orchestra, cursing softly in Russian at their interruption, shuffled from the pier to huddle in the background with the other servants around a brazier.

"That is why we are here, Violet."

His voice distracted her from the preparations. Once again, Igor had put away the showman. Violet chanced a glance sideways and up, under the brim of her fur hat. He had not released her from their skating position, even if though by now they had halted completely. His hand sat upon her waist, his leather gloves following each finger like a second skin and doing nothing to disguise the sensation of his fingers braced against her corset.

Violet had always accepted the uncomfortable undergarment as a necessary penance to enjoy the fripperies and fine clothes she enjoyed so much. Now, for the first time, she wished the whalebone and twill cotton a thousand miles away. How would it feel to have nothing between his hand and her own waist but silk? So every press and twitch would vibrate through her limbs?

What trick was it that her mind turned to nudity - _naked_ , a voice whispered, but that was too much. Too stark. Too…raw.

Raw. Gracious. Like undercooked beef.

She was going insane.

Violet cleared her throat. "I suppose we are guaranteed some privacy at least."

"A novelty, yes?" Without changing their positions, Igor dropped his hand from hers. Violet made to turn. This style of conversation, both facing in the same direction, neither meeting the other's eyes, was ridiculous. Before she could, his hand settled on the other side of her waist. She stilled. But he made no other move.

"A novelty. Yes. Better than a sofa in the Imperial ballroom." She kept her voice dry, a little caustic. When he laughed, when an answering smile tugged at her lips, she realised with a shock that they shared a private joke.

"So, there are only three hundred here tonight to observe us, _solnyshka_. Much better than one thousand. So we can speak with tongues instead of eyes."

If he made no physical move to impropriety, it made little difference. It was there, in his voice, lower now and yet loud, a bass thrum in her ear. It conjured up that first night and his words and her…

"Good." A strangled attempt at calmness. "I always think it is best to speak a resolution aloud."

"More final, hmm?"

"One cannot avoid the issue. Eyes are fickle."

"Then, let me be firm. Violet." And _then_ his hands came round her waist and _then_ her spine was brought against his chest, his stomach, his hips and she felt her breath catch harsh in her throat.

"We must be lovers."

For a second, blinding, bright and clear, Violet knew Igor was right.

It took ten more seconds for her to come to her senses.

" _Must_?"

"Yes. Shall we continue?"

Violet thought wildly that Igor meant to continue this insane line of thought. Blue eyes searched the shore for some shelter that he intended to lead her towards before common sense and the insistent tug on her hand pulled her onwards into skating once more.

"I have changed my mind, Violet." He skated a little away from her now. Goodness knew why. His hand moved to the small of her back, while the other recaptured her fingers. "You do skate well, for an Englishwoman."

"I would appreciate it, your highness if you did not change the subject."

"Very well." They slowed once more but did not stop this time. Instead they swayed along, long lazy curves across the ice. The empty ice.

" _Must_ be lovers?"

"Yes." He glanced upwards to the sky. "This between us. It is not…" He shrugged. " _Comme il faut._ "

 _Not as it should be._

Their world had rules, structures. True, protocols might vary: between countries, sexes. A gentleman might indulge in affairs while a lady remained at home. "Base desire", in her mother's words, might come more easily to a gentleman. A lady did not comprehend the phrase or pretended she did not.

These sensations? _No_ , Violet amended. These _assaults_ on her emotions, this stirring heat that was like a physical reaction every time she found herself in Igor's company was not as it should be.

 _And he felt the same?_

"I don't understand it."

It was only when he laughed that Violet realised she had spoken aloud. "That is why we must be lovers, Violet. How is it possible to understand if we do not explore it?"

"Igor!"

"Yes, _solnyshka_?"

They were drawing closer to the main party. Most had gathered in a clump, far from the wooden gazebo that used to hold the orchestra. Chatter stung the frosty air. The attention of every guest was turned towards the gazebo, now empty of musicians. A single man, squat in dark colours fussed over several long cylinders. A lighted taper bobbed between his lips like a forgotten cigarette.

Patrick stood a little to the side of the crowd. He waited on the shoreline, stiff and straight in his black wool greatcoat. The flaps of his hat were tied up, leaving the tips of his ears bare in the slit between hat and coat-collar. Although a breeze had picked up, making the torches gutter, the Earl of Grantham appeared oblivious. He was absorbed in conversation, a striking brunette Violet did not recognise laughing at his elbow.

There must have been some movement she made, a stiffening of the spine perhaps. Igor seemed to sense her drawing away. It was as if she had decided a physical separation was needed, as if it would diminish the intimacy they had just shared in conversation.

Fingers curled in the root of her spine, twisting into a fist. A quick laugh, that was more sneer than amusement coughed from his lips. "Your husband is remarkable, Violet. So adaptable."

"Don't talk about my husband. Not in that voice." Violet snapped. The hostility in Igor's voice was too familiar. It echoed Patrick's earlier remarks.

"Igoryuha!"

" _Chert_!" Igor cursed - Violet presumed it was a curse - under his breath. The fist at her back loosened and broke hold. It was only then she realised the heat he had been at her back.

Nashtya trotted towards them. Her face was white above the silver fur of her ruff, stark against the pale-blue velvet of her dress. Above the chatter of the crowd, few noticed her shout. Patrick did not even look up from his conversation.

"I should go."

"No." Igor get his grip on her hand. "We must discuss this."

"Igoryuha, something terrible has happened." Nashtya stumbled up to them, her hands spread wide. "You must help me. I insist…"

"I must go." Taking advantage of his distraction, Violet slipped her hand from Igor's grip. Somewhere, a voice shouted out in Russian, bringing a gasp from the crowd. The brunette beside Patrick looked up, her mouth wide with laughter. Her hand fell on Violet's husband's sleeve and clutched.

"Violet -!"

In the roar of the fireworks as they burst onto the sky, Violet heard no more.

* * *

 **Hello! I'm really sorry it's taken me so long to upload this chapter! Things have been a bit hectic recently, what with my upcoming exam (Monday morning, aargh...) and work and such.**

 **So Igor has made his view of the "situation" pretty clear here, haha. And his attitude to Patrick - it's getting a bit nasty between those two but will they be able to keep this civil until Patrick and Violet leave? And what has upset Nashtya all of a sudden?**

 **Hope you enjoyed it and please keep reading - there's still a way to go before the end!**


	19. Chapter 19

**Winter Rose**

* * *

 _The Imperial Chapel_

 _The Winter Palace, St Petersburg_

* * *

"So now, the bishop shall bless the crowns."

Count Nicholas Sumarokov was pale. His face emerged from the seas of incense that misted the Imperial Chapel like a wraith. Deep shadows purpled under his eyes. It was obvious he had not slept a wink since that night at the Kuragins' skating party. Still, as ever mindful of his duty, he roused himself from his bed to attend the wedding ceremony of the Tsarevna Maria Feodorovna and her English Duke. And, as he announced with painful irony, to instruct the English party in the intricacies of the Russian marriage rite.

"And so the bearers, they shall suspense the crowns… Forgive me, suspend the crowns above the heads of the Duke and the Grand Duchess. This shall continue for the entire ceremony."

Behind her, Violet heard the stifled beginnings of a yawn. At the side of the group of English guests, a lesser priest, garbed in heavy black, shot the group an aggravated glare.

Russian Orthodox weddings, it seemed, expected a great deal more pomp than Anglican. Violet could count at least ten priests surrounding the royal couple. Each one was sheathed in cloth-of-gold and their mitres - or whatever the unusual hats perched on their heads were named - towered above their shoulders a good two or three feet tall.

A flurry of hand gestures rippled through the assembled nobility as the priest with the tallest mitre raised his hands for the blessing.

"The Metropolitan of Petersburg will now recite the blessing." Sumarokov whispered. "The Grand Duchess's brothers will hold the crowns. They are assisted by Prince Arthur of Great Britain."

A soft snort rippled from Violet's left shoulder. Her Grace, the Duchess of Argyll shook her coroneted head in derision. "As though we could not recognise our own royal Prince." She muttered to Violet behind the shield of her fan.

If Count Sumarokov heard her, his pale, straitened face gave no indication of it. "And now, the Metropolitan of Kiev joins the hands of the happy couple. The Metropolitan of Petersburg will say the blessing." As the Metropolitan raised his hands and began the first sonorous words, Count Nicholas quickly made a sign of the cross, bowing in time with the Russian congregation.

"How many blessings do we have left?" The Duchess murmured in Violet's ear. "I feel positively _exhausted_ by the contortions of this ceremony."

The Metropolitan raised his hands to the ceiling. The congregation sank to its knees once more. With a stifled sigh, the Duchess followed suite.

Violet bowed her head. The murmurs of prayers from the Russian congregation were soothing. They whispered from the veil of incense in a low sway of words, fogging her mind. When next she looked up, the Russian Grand Duchess and her English groom had finished their procession around the altar. Guests around her were smoothing their suits and shaking out heavy silk skirts, in preparation for leaving. A touch to her elbow broke the last traces of her reverie.

"Lady Grantham?" The state of depression had dampened Count Nicholas's mood so much, even his clicked heels were muted. "If I may escort you?"

The Duchess of Argyll threw Violet a look of sympathy before she melted away into the crowd. But today, even Count Nicholas's desire to educate his English guests on the glories of Mother Russia was diminished. As he led Violet away from the Imperial Chapel towards the great ballroom, not a word passed between them.

The guests gathered in the Catherine ballroom, one of the smaller assembly rooms near the Imperial Chapel. Despite the fires burning at every available corner of the room, the winter chill blew a draught through the enormous room. It had begun to snow as Violet and Patrick left the Anchikov Palace that morning and the frost was settled in earnest by now.

It was with an effort that Violet kept her hands from rubbing some warmth into the chilled skin of her arms. Like the other guests, she was in court dress for the occasion. The white silk flattered her pale skin and flame-red hair. It also left a large expanse of her shoulders and arms exposed to the uncertain heating of the Catherine ballroom.

No wonder, the Countess of Grantham reflected, it was known as the Winter Palace.

"Surely my icy queen is not chilled?"

Violet stiffened. Beside her, Count Sumarokov forgot his own courtesy so much that a frown flickered over his face before he bent his head in a bow. "Viscount Hepworth."

"Count Nicholas." The Viscount bowed in return. "My congratulations on your scintillating monologue. I had no idea Russian marriage ceremonies were so… Detailed."

"It is very complex, yes." Count Nicholas returned stiffly. "I am glad you appreciated it, my Lord."

"In ways you can scarcely imagine, I assure you. But I see Lady Grantham is quite worn out by the experience."

"Merely a slight head-ache, Lord Hepworth." Violet removed her fan from her reticule and unfurled the silken panels with a snap. She waved it in front of her face as though to stir the air, heavy from the incense fumes and the concoction of female perfumes that fogged the room. "Nothing for you to concern yourself."

"But everything about you concerns me, Lady Violet." Before Count Nicholas could do much more than gape in indignation, Hepworth continued, "As the wife of my dear friend, of course."

"Of course. Your moral fortitude is legendary, Lord Hepworth." Violet let the fan beat a lazy path back and forth. Blue eyes sharpened like the icicles Hepworth imagined. "And how is your dear wife? You must be a devoted corespondent."

Count Nicholas glanced at Violet, his misery forgotten for a moment in his astonishment. "Lord Hepworth is married?"

"Devotedly so." Hepworth's smile remained in place, even as the lines about his mouth tightened. "Alas, the postal services being what they are, I have not had the opportunity."

Count Nicholas bristled. "His most imperial Majesty, Tsar Alexander, is most proud of the Russian Postal Service. President Fillmore of the United States of America has personally complimented his imperial Majesty on the superiority of our Russian post."

Hepworth turned a lazy eye to the sudden assault on his flank. "Ah, but then again, President Fillmore is an American."

Before Count Nicholas could recover his wits to respond, Hepworth had his arm out and crooked to receive Violet's hand. "On the topic of devoted spouses, my lady, Lord Grantham has been speaking of you."

"I believed Lord Grantham to be occupied with the preparations for the Anglican ceremony." Violet frowned.

"As to that, I cannot say. Still, your presence has been requested and my services were ever available for your good self." Hepworth gave a small bow over the rim of his arm.

It was strange for Patrick to ask for her so soon. Violet had been under the impression that her husband would be so busy organising the antechamber for the Anglican wedding ceremony

that he would have little wish to be troubled by her until the fuss and bother was over.

She gave a mental shrug. Perhaps the Dean of Westminster, who was to perform the ceremony, had his feathers ruffled by the overt Russian Orthodox presence in the Imperial Chapel. Patrick, no doubt, needed a victim to stand and endure one of the Dean's lengthy sermons on history so as to restore the churchman's equilibrium before the wedding.

She laid her hand on the outstretched arm. "Thank you, Lord Hepworth. If you will excuse me, Count Sumarokov."

Count Nicholas bowed low but before he could reply, Hepworth led Violet away. Skirting around the edges of the ballroom, they passed footmen with trays of champagne and courtiers ensconced in the delicate sofas and thin-legged _chaises_ that lined the wall. Violet felt interested glances scorch across her bare shoulders, bright eyes peeking over the brim of silken fans and white gloves in curiosity. She should have been accustomed to it by now. Since she arrived in St Petersburg, her very English looks, not to mention her bright red hair, had drawn attention from the Russian nobility. Still, the muscles tensed between her shoulder blades and she deliberately slowed her footsteps from Hepworth's brisk march.

"Surely, Lord Hepworth, we do not need to speed on as though we were competing at the Newmarket races? The wedding ceremony is not due to begin for another hour at least as I recall."

"Why on earth should we go there?"

"Why?" Now Violet stopped. The two of them had traversed the full length of the hall until they were now only a few feet from the double doors at the end.

The Countess of Grantham stepped back from the crowd of listening ears to a window alcove hung with heavy velvet curtains. The hour had scarcely passed three in the afternoon but outside the palace Windows the sky had already dimmed to a greying twilight. Through a gap in the curtains, the thin glass panes did little to dispel the sharp chill of winter. Violet gritted her teeth against the urge to shiver as her skin prickled along the back of her neck. No doubt Hepworth would take it as a strange form of compliment!

"Why? You told me that my husband requested my presence. That he was looking for me."

"Not quite, my lady." Hepworth joined her in the alcove, his height shielding Violet from the crowd. "I said that Lord Grantham spoke _of_ you and that your presence had been requested. I never specified by _whom_." Hepworth raised his hand as though to brush a speck of dust from Violet's shoulder. The Countess of Grantham slapped his hand away with a sharp rap of her fan against his knuckles.

"Is this your idea of a joke?" Violet hissed.

"You've been avoiding me." Hepworth raised his hand once more then quickly lowered it when he caught a glimpse of the ready fan. He hooked his thumb into the pocket of his waistcoat in a negligent gesture. "Since we arrived in this cursed chilly city, you have scarcely spent an hour in my presence."

Violet nearly laughed aloud. Hepworth, the great seducer, putting on the airs of a lovelorn swain? "I was not aware I willingly spent even a minute in your presence in London, my lord."

"Willing or supposedly unwilling, be that as it may. I am neglected. And for what?"

"Your dear _friend_? My husband?"

The blue eyes narrowed like a toad squinting at her from an advantageous lily pad. Hepworth's fine features tapered into a mocking smirk. "The Earl? Good God, Violet, you cannot expect me to swallow that. A woman like you, pining at home, for a rounder? One who, by all accounts, joins our corpulent Prince of Wales in doing all the rounds of this city?"

It should not have stung Violet to hear such gossip spoken aloud. She knew her husband by now. How did the phrase go? Blood ran thicker than water. The Fourth Earl had been known for his love of expensive racehorses and even more expensive women. His son was less profligate in his vices. He only focussed on one. But he was, in that respect, every inch his father's son.

Seeing Violet pause, Hepworth moved to capitalise on his momentary victory. "You know I only tease you when I call you icy, Violet." He spoke low, his voice a soft drawl. He leaned closer, disguising his proximity by appearing to adjust his cufflinks. "You enjoyed that once."

"Many years ago." She could not step back from Hepworth without being nearly herded into the curtains like a silk-clad sheep. Trapped she may have been but Violet refused to play the part of a hunted animal. She lifted her chin with disdain. "When I was young and foolish. There are many things that appeal to the young and foolish that at later glance appear rather.. Flat."

"Those are the words of a dried-up old dowager. Have you truly stooped so low, Violet?"

His murmur was clear and nasal in Violet's ear, despite the chatter around them. "Have some _fun_ , Violet. Let the debutante who flirted with me at the Grosvenor Gallery off your tight leash. We could make a good team," He stepped to her side, raising his hand as though to brush the tip of her earring. "You and I. Together."

It was on the tip of Violet's tongue to rebuke him. Hepworth had tried the same argument in a thousand different word at at time over the past six years. Yet, she hesitated.

Was it true? Had she changed so much? There was a safety in dignity and etiquette. Society approved of those who behaved well and the rules for such behaviour had not changed in more than a hundred years. Violet enjoyed that approval, the respect and admiration it garnered from her peers and rivals.

And yet.

"…no talk." Hepworth was speaking again. "Not if we are discreet. So far from London, who would know? If we were lovers…"

He reached out a finger to brush her earring and Violet focussed on his face. The fleshy lips of a pleasure seeker, the smooth barbered cheeks. His hair was oiled back in a gleaming cap, not a strand out of place. The scent of Parma violets hung about his head. Hair oil. An effete touch that jarred against the senses. It was not a scent men commonly wore. It set a false note to his appearance and Violet recoiled instinctively.

Hepworth laughed. It was like pebbles pattering against glass. "Still uncertain, my ice queen? You prefer the company of our Russian hosts?"

The unexpected jab broke the last of Violet's preoccupation. She twisted her head away from Hepworth's reach. The trails of diamonds swung wildly in her ears. "When they do not act the boor!" She snapped. "If you will excuse me, Lord Hepworth, I think I can find my own way to the wedding party."

With a twist of her waist, she swished her skirts from the alcove. Before Hepworth could do more than gape in her wake, Violet had pushed her way through the crowd. Although her heart hammered through her veins, she felt like she was carved from the very ice Hepworth imagined. She pressed her hand against the boned stomach of her gown. The breath burst from her lungs in sharp heaves.

She must look a fright. With no mirror to observe her appearance, Violet only guessed at her flushed cheeks and clammy skin. She could not appear before the English party in such a fashion.

The footmen were all pressed to service in the ballroom, passing out trays of champagne to the waiting guests. Not a single man stood guard on the doors of the ballroom to observe the Countess of Grantham slip through the entrance and into the echoing hallways of the Winter Palace.

Violet smoothed the front of her dress as though the movement itself could soothe her ruffled feelings. She took a breath and straightened her shoulders.

It was ridiculous to be unnerved by Hepworth's remark. It was a shot in the dark. A jealous aside, perhaps in light of her tolerance of Count Nicholas. The Viscount could not possibly imagine the truth of his own words. That Violet did prefer the company of their Russian hosts. Or rather, host.

That she preferred it far too much for her own peace of mind. And that he had made it perfectly obvious that he reciprocated the impulse.

Lovers. Was the world obsessed with infidelity? Was there no respect left for… For duty and propriety?

The words echoed in Violet's head and for some strange reason, it was not her voice but rather her mother-in-law's high, thrusting tones. How did Hepworth put it? A dried-up dowager. God knew, if ever such a creature existed, it was in the form of the Fourth Countess of Grantham. A woman who lived to hang funeral wreaths on the front-door knocker and whose favourite topic of conversation was the better morals of her own generation. Violet would rather die than become such a woman.

There was a door ajar to the left of the corridor. With so many crowded in the grand ballroom, many of the small chambers in the corridors around had been emptied of their usual occupants. Violet took the chance and slipped inside the door. Silence would help recompose her to polished coolness.

The room inside was, like so many others in the Winter Palace, decorated in the French style of the previous century. Yellow brocade striped the cushions on the sofa. The enormous mirror that hung against the wall was enriched with heavy gold moulding, a grinning cherub perched at the apex. Two porcelain vases, as gilded as the mirror-frame, flanked the pretty ornament. A heavy tang hung about the air, as though someone had only recently smoked a cigar. Violet stilled at the intrusion but when the silence continued she relaxed again.

She moved over the mirror, her hands already rising to pat her curls back into place. Almost before she had begun, her hands stilled. Why did she need to settle anything? Scarcely a hair had moved from the complicated festoon of ringlets her maid had teased out that very morning. The woman facing her was perfectly turned out, from the fine arch of her eyebrows to the glitter of crystals along the neckline of her bodice. She showed nothing of the uncertainty roiling under that pale white skin.

Aunt Roberta, so many weeks ago in London, had told Violet that she needed to expand her horizons. To live a little before she was swallowed up in a morass of respectability. Was this what Roberta had meant? Violet felt as though she was brushing her toes against the edge of a precipice, while clinging with one hand to a safety rope. It would be easy - no. It would not be _easy_ but it would be _easier_ to pull back and yet…

"I think that God must have a hand in our meeting, my Violet."

Blue eyes leapt to the mirror, to the point beyond her shoulder where they were met by a pair of smiling black eyes.

Igor Kuragin leaned against the winged chair, his elbow resting along the top. Three buttons of his uniform were undone, letting the breast flap flop down in a relaxed crease. Between his fingers was a smoking cigar and on his face, the grin of a cream-fed cat.

"Is it a divine miracle that you choose the same room as me to escape? Or have you come to consider my offer?"

Igor's appearance, on the cusp of her own dilemma, was enough to put Violet instantly on the attack. She drew herself up to her full height, ignoring the appreciative twinkle in Igor's eyes. "I came here to be alone."

"So did I, until I was interrupted." Heedless of the ash scattered across silk cushions, Igor flicked his cigar clean and drew it up to his lips. He inhaled and sighed. "But now we can be alone together. Good practice, yes?"

"If you imagine I would even _countenance_ your disgraceful offer of the previous night, you are sorely mistaken."

He shrugged and tapped his cigar once more. A black speck burnt through the head of the chair. "Love is only disgraceful if you consider it so."

"I do not think _love_ was what you had in mind." Violet scoffed, folding her arms across her chest.

He observed her, one leg hooked across the other in careless repose. "You are frightened of me." Surprise echoed in his voice.

"Certainly not!"

"But you are." His voice softened to a low burr. "I have fought in Samarkand and the steppes, Violet. I know how fear looks. You do not have to be afraid of me."

"I'm not frightened of you." Violet asserted. _I'm afraid of myself when I'm around you._

He stiffened for a moment. Then, as though with conscious effort, he relaxed once again. "So instead you come here to quarrel with me." He took another drag on the cigar. His eyes never moved From her face. "Do you not grow tired of fighting all that time, _solnyshka_?"

"I can hardly consider it fighting when I know I will prevail."

"And to the victor go the spoils. But what do you win, Violet?" Down to the stub now, he threw the remains of his cigar on the silver dish beside him. "The pleasure of seeing your so-fine husband hang about the greatest flirt in Petersburg while you remain at home in your cold bed?"

"Hardly cold. We are not royalty, Prince Kuragin, but we can afford a warming pan."

"You brush me off but you know it is true." Violet's fingers clenched against her skirts. "Me, I ask myself how such a proud woman can permit that."

"My faults are none of your concern."

"But then I think. I am wrong. That is exactly what such a proud woman as you would do, Violet."

"I did not permit you to make free with my name!" It was too late for that protest, Violet knew. They had traversed beyond such petty shows of etiquette. She lifted her hand to her throat to shield the blood thudding through her veins. "You cannot possibly understand."

"I understand. Your husband, he may have _affaires_ but you, you are too proud to lower yourself to his level. You are the paragon, how you say it, the moral high ground." He straightened up. His feet braced on the carpeted floor. There was a strange expression on his face. Not anger and yet Violet was sure that he longed to grab her shoulders and shake her. "You want to be able to sneer at him because you deny yourself the same thing he treats so lightly. A hypocrite."

The word lashed out like a slap. Violet took a step forward, her cheeks flame my with rage. "You are a fine man to talk of principles! You… You _rake_."

He laughed and again it was strange. Not angry and yet there was scant little amusement. "Yes, of course. But I am honest, Violet. I do not deny what is natural. I know my faults as well as I know my desires. I was not made for fidelity. Why should I deny what nature intended?"

"Do not parade your… Your lack of self-control as though it was a virtue."

"Don't deny yourself some pleasure because you think it is a vice, _solnyshka_."

"Stop calling me that!" She wanted to slap him in his smiling, handsome face. She wanted to shout and scream and hammer her fists against his chest, anything to stop the words pouring from his mouth, stripping her bare while he stood there with cigar smoking serenely in silver plate beside him.

He laughed again. For some reason, her rage seemed to delight him in a way that her acquiescence did not. "Go on, _solnyshka_. Storm at me. Crackle and fire at me. It adds such a delightful pink to those white cheeks. One might almost believe you are human."

 _Crash._

Violet stared at the porcelain fragments. Her tongue stoppered her mouth with horror. The priceless azure and gold vase that stood beside the gilded mirror was gone. One second in her hand, the next it was across the room in a thousand shards of gilt and blue. Her destructive hands trembled by her sides and she heaved air to her lungs.

She raised her eyes. "I never…"

She never saw him come closer. Not until the very last minute when his eyes were above her, his lips inches from hers. She did not see his arms grab her waist, his hand slid up to force her head closer, almost lifting her from her feet. But she felt, Lord, she _felt_.

He kissed her. There was nothing gentle in his kiss. His lips were hot on her own, demanding, like he wanted to inhale the breath in her lungs. It shocked her blood. A comet flare of heat scorched through her limbs. Beyond her own control, her hands rose up until they were tangled in his hair and she was pulling him in so there was not a breath between them, between his legs and hers, between his hands and her waist, her back, lower…

Something hard brushed her lower lip sending a thrill down her stomach. A sound hummed in the air and Violet realised with a shock that it was her. She gasped, her lips parting just enough for him to move in and she was lost.

A minute or an hour. Violet could not have said how long they stood there before the air burned in her lungs and she broke away, gulping for breath. She didn't open her eyes. She couldn't. An irrational fear gripped her that the moment she opened her eyes, the spell would break and all that would be left was her world in ashes about her feet. Igor's harsh breath echoed in her ears and there was a warmth against her temple, as though he pressed his forehead to hers, unwilling to break the connection between them.

Her hands loosened. They slid down his neck until they settled on his shoulders. Violet pulled back her head and the brush of cold air against her temple made her open her eyes. "Igor?"

"Ssh." Igor's hand slid forward from her neck. His thumb brushed against her lower lip. It was rough against her swollen lips and warm and dry along her skin. " _Tishe, solnyshka moya._ Not yet, Violet."

His arm tightened around her waist, pressing her close to his body so the button of his uniform left faint impressions along Violet's exposed collarbone. Violet had the irresistible urge to reach up and cup her hand around his cheek and feel the rough brush of his stubble against her palm. She turned her hand up then stilled. His black gaze probed her face, lines scored deep under his eyes. She stretched like a cat in his arms and without a thought raised her head, waiting for him to kiss her again. Between the layers of clothes, his body tensed. His muscles tautened under her hand and Violet knew by instinct that he wanted her in that age-old way of love and desire.

"No."

He drew back. Oh, his arm was still around her waist, her legs entwined with his like the most brazen of hussies. But he tilted back his head. The black curl fell down from his forehead and into the crease between his eyes.

"No, Violet. My Violet. That one," Another brush of his thumb, lighter than air, across her lips. "Was for me. The next must come from you."

"I can't." Violet whispered.

 _I can't break my vows. I can't risk everything like this. Help me. Take the choice from me._

"Then, _solnyshka_ , neither can I."

* * *

 **Well, _finally._ *facepalm***

 **I'm really sorry about it taking so long to update. Work has been a bit crazy at the moment so there isn't that much time to get the brain cells together to write. Thank you everyone who read/reviewed - I really appreciate it!**

 **I hope you enjoy this chapter - poor Violet is pulled in three different ways at the moment but I think we can guess who she wants really (despite what she might think herself). Of course the big question now is will she act on it (and will Igor keep his promise)?**

 **If you enjoy this chapter or have any comments on the way I portray the characters, please let me know! Sometimes I get caught up in my own ideas about Violet and Igor, I might wander off from how they're portrayed in the _Downton_ series - a fatal flaw in fanfiction lol! **

**Again, I hope you enjoy and happy April's Fools!**


	20. Chapter 20

**Winter Rose**

* * *

 _Anchikov Palace_

 _Rooms of the Earl and Countess of Grantham_

* * *

"A pretty sight."

Violet's fingers stilled at her earring just as she was about undo the clasp of the diamond trail. She turned her eyes to the mirror and her husband reflected in the glass. Patrick had removed his jacket in deference to the informality of their private rooms. He rested on the chaise lounge in her bedroom, a tumbler of brandy balanced in his hand.

Something about her posture must have raised his attention. He nodded his head in the direction of her bedroom door and the outside world. "The ceremony, I mean."

Had it been? Scraps of images floated to Violet's mind but nothing concrete. She scarcely remembered a thing from the ceremony which bound the Grand Duchess and the Duke of Edinburgh together in the sight of the Church of England. Her thoughts had been in such disarray, it was a wonder she recollected herself enough to endure the ceremony at all, let alone the dinner and ball that followed. Not when her thoughts were entirely elsewhere. More particularly, when they lingered in a small antechamber outside the main ballroom…

Once they broke apart, it had been as though a sheet of ice separated Igor and her. He stepped back and turned around, to offer her the privacy of repairing the damage to her gown and hair. Not a word passed between them and it was as though he was unaffected by their recent embrace. Though she warned herself to resist, Violet could not help but steal glances at him in the reflection of the mirror.

Was she hoping to see him tremble, like the volatile heroes of the gothic novels she had so secretly enjoyed in childhood? Did she expect some sign in him of the uncertainty in which his kiss had thrown her? If so, she was disappointed. He remained still, no movement save his thumb flicking lightly against the buckle of his uniform belt.

When she cleared her throat to indicate that he could turn around once more, his expression had retreated into that same remote inner place she had seen only once before, the morning they met in the Summer Gardens. Was it really only three days ago?

He accepted her hand without teasing, without the flirtation that had previously spiced their interactions. Yet there was something tender and more gentle about the way he tucked her fingers in the crook of his arm. He studied her face. She thought he would say something. _She_ wanted to say something, though whether it was to beg forgiveness or provoke him, she could barely say. She wanted to say anything, if only to break the silence that gathered and swelled like a storm cloud between them.

In the end, the silence held until they reached the ballroom doors. Here, Igor paused. He lifted her hand from his arm, permitting her fingers to linger only briefly in his own before dropping them gently to her side.

"You should go in first. I will follow in a few minutes."

Violet nodded. It would not be wise for the two of them to appear in the ballroom door at the same time. Even that small action would be enough to send tongues wagging across St Petersburg. Yet she could not move. She did not raise her hand or clutch at his sleeve, like a love-sick child, hungry for more kisses. She had more pride than that. She would not relent, no matter how much she wanted it.

Igor might mock her for a hypocrite but sometimes the appearance of honour was all that was required.

Yet she could not move forward in to the ballroom. She could only stand there, looking at Igor. His curl dropping down over his forehead, the lines etched under his eyes and his lips…

Igor muttered a curse in Russian and took a step forward. Violet flinched, ready to spring back from the anger that flared up in his black eyes as suddenly as a firework. She had not moved an inch before Igor's hand settled on either side of her face, forcing her gaze up from his lips to meet the Prince's glower.

Igor's eyes darted across her face, like a man seeking a familiar country on a new map. Violet wet her lips. She was staring too, she realised that. She raised her own hand and laid it across the back of his as though to press him closer still.

Something changed in the back of Igor's gaze. He exhaled sharply and nodded. "You will kiss me, Violet."

Violet gave a shaky laugh. "Here? In the palace corridor?"

"Soon. You must."

A door slammed in the distance. Violet jerked her head from his grip. Nerves roiled in her stomach. She flung a glance over her shoulder. "Someone's watching."

"No one." Igor did not attempt to draw her close again. That intrusion had shattered their dream. He fumbled at the buttons of his tunic, checking those he had already re-fastened. "You should go in."

Violet nodded. She bent down and scooped up the hem of her gown. For some obscure reason, she felt a surge of pride that her fingers did not shake. They were steady as she picked up her skirts and pushed with her free hand against the side entrance of the grand ballroom.

Inside, the music swallowed her like a wave.

She had danced that night. Of that, she had no doubt. Others would have remarked upon it if she had not. There had been the Prussian count, a subaltern in the Preobrazhensky Guards, Patrick did not dance. But that was to be expected. Instead he stood to the side of the ballroom and commandeered her arm for the interludes between dance requests.

Igor danced. Violet ordered herself to look away when he waltzed into her line of sight, his wife laughing with delight in his arms. Irina Kuragin was as delicate as her tall husband was not, a confection of pink silk and seed pearls. The sight of them together made the matrons and dowagers of Petersburg smile with indulgence.

"A pretty sight." Violet thought she had heard someone say. Or was that her mind playing tricks? She pressed her fingertips to her forehead.

"Violet?"

Patrick. Her bedroom.

"Violet, are you quite all right?"

Patrick started to his feet. Violet shook her head. She pinned on a smile for the reflection in her mirror. "Perfectly all right. Thank you, Patrick."

The insouciant brush-off did not convince the Earl. He continued towards her, his brandy glass still clasped between his fingers. "I thought you were distracted during the ball."

He stopped behind her. The warmth of his body penetrated the slim channel of air between them. Violet could feel his bulk like a heated brick to her back.

Patrick seemed to hesitate. Then he raised his hand to cup her left shoulder. Violet glanced to the side in surprise then up.

The mahogany brown eyes fixed on her reflection in the mirror. "You did not have the head-ache? I know it has been a long day. And those priests use a ridiculous amount of incense in their ceremony."

"Not at all. I am perfectly well." When his hand did not drop, Violet tried for a light laugh. "Please, Patrick. You must allow me some room to remove these earrings. Matlock will be furious if I fall asleep still wearing them."

His fingers lingered, a second more. Then, Patrick removed his hand. He did not step back. Violet started to remove her earring once more. She did not look away from the mirror.

Neither did Patrick.

"Do you remember our wedding ceremony?"

"Vaguely. Your mother did not approve of the flowers."

The flowers had been the least of the items that failed to meet the Dowager Countess of Grantham's high standards. Violet could still recall the distinctive flare the aristocratic nostrils gave as her mother-in-law read over the list of settlements Violet's father had bestowed upon his daughter for her marriage. It was meagre and far short of Lady Grantham's expectations.

"Yes. I remember that."

What else? In truth, there was very little Violet remembered of her wedding day. There were small details, swimming to the surface now and then, like tea leaves escaping the sieve. The flowers. How her corset had been laced so tight, she could not even try a slice of her own wedding cake. And the cologne Patrick wore made her nose itch. Violet had spent their first waltz as man and wife fighting the urge to sneeze.

She remembered their wedding night. But her private thoughts on that experience did not bear sharing.

"I suppose it was the excitement." She temporised, laying the strand of diamonds down on the dressing table. "It was all such a rush. Guests everywhere. And the servants rushing around, chattering and organising…"

She trailed off. Patrick did not move from his stance behind her. She gave a small shrug and lifted her fingers to the second earring.

"You wore diamonds."

Patrick laid his hand on her shoulder. He seemed to have forgotten her first admonition. His thumb stroked the soft flesh at the apex of her arm. His palm was soft as suede leather, not rough like… His gaze no longer met hers in the mirror. Instead it lingered lower, across her lips and neck.

The blood rushed to Voilet's hands and it was cold as ice water. She swallowed and Patrick's eyes followed the movement of her throat.

"A spray of diamonds in your hair. I think you wore it to hold your veil in place. A white lace veil, very fine. And when you stepped into Downton church, the light caught you so your hair glowed like fire." Patrick paused and gave an embarrassed laugh. "I thought you were quite the most beautiful thing I had ever laid my eyes upon. And so very young."

It could have been any other night. Any other night in the thousands that stretched in the nine years of their marriage. Violet undid the clasp of her earring and slid the gold bar from her pierced lobe. She wanted to fling it away; far, far away in the corner of the room.

She laid the strand of diamonds gently on the linen cloth of her dresser. Her left hand rested beside them. On her second finger, the dull gold of her wedding band glowed in the lamplight.

Strange, Violet realised, how she had not noticed it was there earlier. When she pressed Igor's palm to her cheek. When she grabbed the collar of his uniform and pulled a strange man, a stranger, closer and closer into a kiss that seemed to burn her from the inside out. Yet now it stood out on her pale finger like a manacle.

"Listen to me. Babbling like a fool." Patrick gave another short laugh, a cough of embarrassment. "Too much brandy, I dare say. Never turned sentimental on it before. Something strange in the city air, no doubt."

"It is rather late." Violet pulled the lapels of her dressing gown close of her chest, straightened the tasselled knot of the belt. A curl brushed loose from the bedtime plait Matlock had made of her hair. She tucked it back unconsciously, a nervous tic. "I suppose you wish to retire to your own room."

"Late. Yes." Patrick watched the movement of her hand. He reached out and, just as carefully as Violet had tucked it away, set the curl loose once again. It tumbled down by the sharp arch of her cheekbone, kissing the white skin with auburn fire. Patrick's fingers ghosted down Violet's neck to brush the base of her skull. She shivered. He swallowed.

"I hoped not to retire alone tonight."

A thousand excuses sprang to Violet's tongue. Polite, civil apologies. Reasons and explanations. None of them found voice.

She rose to her feet. With one hand, she removed the brandy glass from Patrick's unresisting grip. The other she slipped into his palm held open in invitation. With her eyes wide open, Violet looked up at the pale, austere face of her husband. She traced the grey wings at either temple, the thin lines scored around his mouth. Without a word, she led him towards the bed.

She kept her eyes open the whole time.

* * *

 **Aaaand... The love triangle continues - will Violet stick with Patrick? Is the Earl of Grantham learning to uncover some of his emotions? And what does Igor think about all this?**

 **There were a lot of Igor/Violet for the past two chapters so I reckoned it was about time Patrick started kicking about for a bit as well.**

 **Apologies for the lack of updates - I'm facing in to an exam this weekend so should be revising - but Violet and Igor are a lot more fun haha! Hope you enjoyed this chapter and please, feel free to comment! I really appreciate all of them!**


	21. Chapter 21

**Winter Rose**

* * *

 _The Hermitage Museum, St Petersburg_

 _The Knight's Hall_

* * *

" _Vraiment_? You have not heard?"

The astonished questioned shattered the awed hush of the gallery. Heads turned in their direction. Disapproving frowns peered around the plump marble thighs of Roman nymphs and Greek goddesses.

Violet grabbed Katya's hand and dragged her friend behind a chipped mask of Dionysius. "Katya! All of Petersburg does not need to hear you!"

Utterly unabashed, Katya Dolgurukov shook her head so her dark curls danced. "Truly, Violet, I do not know what you have been doing with yourself these past two days." She complained, not bothering to modulate her voice a whit. "You drive out but do not stop to chat. You dine at home and not in company. Have you become a nun, _cherie_?"

She tilted up the brim of Violet's bonnet and peered closer, her dark eyes alight with laughter. "Is there a veil hidden under all your hair?"

"Stop that, Katya!" Violet laughed and batted the Princess's curious hands away. "And wearing a veil _under_ your hair rather defeats the purpose, don't you think? Besides, I am out now."

"In a _gallery_." Katya shot the leering satyr opposite a disdainful glare. "This is not, I think, sufficient. Only those with no breeding go to public galleries. It is because they do not possess such dusty old things themselves."

"I enjoy it." Violet lied.

Truthfully, she agreed with Katya. There was a world of difference between a casual admiration of dusty statues and sooty paintings and making a purposeful trip through the bustling city streets to admire them. But it was the only place she was sure she would meet neither Igor nor Patrick by accident.

That aim was quickly becoming the only way for Violet to maintain her peace of mind.

"Enjoy it?" Katya fanned her face with the slim pamphlet the curator pressed upon her at the entrance. The bearded gnome of a man had been perspiring at the prospect of the Tsar's mistress assuming patronage of the institution. Violet and Katya were escorted through the marbled entrance personally by the museum's director. It was only after several refusals that the two women were free to wander around the exhibitions without his attentive escort.

Katya pulled another face. "Please Violet, let us at least wander about the gardens. I cannot gossip with you as I wish with all of these eyes following me." A wave of the pamphlet indicated the marble bust of Cato glaring in disdain at them.

"Very well." Violet linked her arm in Katya's. They wandered towards the shallow steps that exited the hall and descended to sparse walkways of the Hermitage's gardens. "What have I missed in the two whole days since the Grand Duchess's wedding?"

"Ah ah! Unpatriotic of you, Violet. It is _her Grace_ , the Duchess of Edinburgh now, yes?" Katya laughed. "Sasha has been teaching me all about your English aristocracy. But he is a little put out that our Grand Duchess has lost her grandness in this marriage! And this Edinburgh, I understand it is a very wet and dreary place indeed."

"The Tsar may rest easy in knowing her Grace will probably never have to visit Edinburgh if she does not wish it. And thank you, Katya, for recalling me to the proprieties!"

"You are welcome." Katya gave an impish curtsy. "But, yes. The most important part. Darya Mikhailovna - you recall, the flirt we met at Igor's skating party…"

"I do." The striking brunette in red velvet. The woman Violet interrupted in brushing snow from the lapel of Patrick's coat while her husband smiled happily. A tense nerve tightened along the back of Violet's shoulders. "What about her?"

"Well. Apparently, Darya has spent the past two days going around Petersburg boasting about making a conquest of one of your English gentlemen." Katya shook her head. "So discreet, yes? Ah, but that was always so. Even as a girl."

"Yes. The greatest flirt in Petersburg." Unwilling, Igor's words rose to Violet's lips.

Katya looked surprised. "So you have met? I did not know. Ah, but Violet, that is not the end of the story." She glanced around. Seeing they were alone on the gravelled path, she still leaned closer. "She claims he has given her a necklace, the most magnificent piece you can imagine! An emerald, direct from the hands of the new Faberge. Completely in the new style, _le dernier cri_ of jewels."

"Have you seen it?"

"No. But Darya Mikhailovna, while many things, was never a liar. If she says it is an emerald, it is an emerald. If she says her new lover is English, well…" Katya shrugged like one who had seen it all before. "So far from home, _qui savez_?"

"And she has not said who the gentleman is?" Violet kept her voice light. True, after their… reunion on the night of the royal wedding, Patrick had once again become very busy. His presence was frequently demanded at the Alexander Palace, where the Duke of Edinburgh and his bride were spending their honeymoon. He found it difficult to return to their own apartments in the Anchikov Palace much before the bells of the Kazan Cathedral struck midnight. Last night he had not returned at all, preferring to take one of the many spare bed chambers in the Alexander Palace.

As Katya said, so far from home, inhibitions relaxed even in the most formal of men. And she had been in this position before…

"He must be quite wealthy, to make such an extravagant purchase?"

"Very much so." Katya shook her head. "I have heard that the Tsarevitch himself is thinking of becoming the young Faberge's patron. Even the hint of it would be enough to make the man's prices soar." She ran her finger along the inside of her own pearl necklace and pursed her lips. "Perhaps I might drop a hint in Sasha's ear…"

"Later! First you must tell me the rest of this important gossip I have missed." For the first time since meeting the young Princess Dolgorukov, Violet found herself discomfited by her friend's relationship with the Tsar - the _married_ Tsar Alexander.

How could she scorn Darya Mikhailovna for becoming a man's mistress while accepting so easily Katya's own position as the Tsar's lover? Was she such a hypocrite as Igor claimed?

"The other gossip. _Tiens_ , let me think! Ah, yes. It is not gossip but they say that young Tolstoy is due to publish the first chapter of his new work soon. It is to be in serial form, like the work of Monsieur Dickens."

"He had mentioned to me that he was working on a new novel."

"You have met him too? _Tiens_ , Violet, you will be one of us soon, you will know so many people."

"Once or twice in passing. He introduced me to his wife at the Kuragins' skating party and she was the one who mentioned it."

"Rumour has it, on their wedding night, Tolstoy confessed all his past liaisons to her. Every woman!" Katya's cheek pinked with embarrassment, even as she gave another breathless laugh. "Can you imagine? I would have been furious with him."

"It doesn't seem to have hurt their marriage."

"On the contrary. But what a strange marriage it must be. And speaking of marriage…"

They had rounded the corner of the path. On the bench nearby, an enormous tabby cat lay bathed in the brief winter sunshine, it's eyes slitted against the glare. Katya shooed the beast from its perch and settled herself on the bench. The cat gave the Princess a disdainful stare. It wandered off, picking its way through the snow-dusted stones with painful dignity.

Violet sat next to Katya, smoothing out the skirts of her dark walking suit. "Who is to be married now?"

"Ah, no! It is rather who is _not_ to be married now. You recall the incident with poor Nashtya at the skating party?"

"Somewhat. I remember Nashtya left early but Patrick wanted me to meet the ambassador from France and I couldn't speak with her before."

"Then you have missed the whole story, Violet!" Katya glanced over her shoulder. Satisfied that they were still alone, she continued. "You know how much Nashtya wished to match her nephew, Nikolai Sumarkov with Lidia Niemov?"

"Of course. Lidia's father is a friend of Nashtya's, isn't he? Similar politics or some such."

"Their politics may not have changed but their friendship certainly has! Apparently someone at the Kuragins' party told Ivan Niemov that his daughter was close to forming an alliance with a Sumarokov. Well. Nothing was more sure to set the entire plan up in flames."

"He refused the Count?"

"Refused? He ordered Count Nicholas never to darken his doorstep again. It was nearly a duel, but for the presence of the Tsarevitch to restore order. As for Nashtya," Katya shook her head. "That is one friendship that is gone forever. Ivan Niemov has utterly forbidden his daughter from Nashtya's chaperonage."

"Nashtya must be horrified." Violet frowned. "I know she wanted that match for Count Nicholas. No wonder he was so silent at the Royal wedding."

"They say he looks as though Death laid his hand on his shoulder." Katya caught herself and sighed. "I should not say that. It is sad for young Kolya. Even if he is just a silly boy at times, he was a silly boy in love. And now, he cannot."

"You don't know that." Violet protested. "There is a chance Ivan Niemov will relent. After all, Count Nicholas is not such a bad match, when all is said and done."

"But he is a Sumarokov and on that point, Ivan Niemov will never relent. Besides, now Nashtya is no longer permitted to chaperone Lidia, how can the two young people meet? Ivan already trusts so few with the care of Lidia's reputation. He is like a bear with a cub, _n'est-ce pas_? And none of those would risk his wrath."

"And what does Nashtya say to this?" From what Violet knew of the vivacious widow, Princess Nashtya would not meekly take this setback with a fight.

"Nashtya does not say anything. She is like you, Violet. She has not been seen for two days."

"What?" Violet sat bolt upright on the bench. "But that is absurd."

"I agree." Katya shrugged. "So do others. But she will see no one. Only her father confessor and when he comes, all she can do is weep. Nashtya," The Princess observed without irony. "Is a woman with great sensitivity."

It sounded more like self-pity to Violet's ears. Although, guessing at Nashtya's life from what she had let drop, this was possibly the first severe setback the widowed Princess had ever encountered. Going from being the only daughter of indulgent older parents to the pampered wife of a besotted prince, Nashtya had lived most of her life ordering the world the way she preferred it. Having never met adversity, she had never had to develop the guile to overcome it.

Well. In that particular area, Violet had ample experience.

She rose to her feet. Katya glanced up, startled. "Violet? What - where are you going?"

"Not I. We." Violet tilted her hat to a rakish angle over her eyes. All the better to storm the gates of Nashtya's self-imposed prison. "We are going to Nashtya's home to solve this ridiculous muddle everyone has created."

"But…" Katya jumped up, her dark eyes wide. "There is nothing _to_ do. Ivan Niemov has decided. We cannot do anything."

"Certainly, if everyone thinks like _that_ , nothing shall be done." Linking her arm in Katya's, Violet shot her friend a brilliant smile. "And if I understand gentlemen at all, that is precisely what Ivan Niemov expects."

"Naturally, but…"

"Gentlemen have the unerring habit of assuming the world runs to their orders. Which makes it twice as enjoyable to confound them."

* * *

 **As Spratt, Violet's butler many, many years later said about Violet: _"She never likes to be predictable."_**

 **Thank you for the lovely reviews on my last chapter! (I was at work when I spotted some of them and confused everyone by suddenly breaking into claps ㈴2 ️) I hope you enjoy this one as well, although it's not quite as long as others. For anyone wondering/wanting more Violet/Igor clashing - hold on, it's coming up!**

 **Happy reading!**


	22. Chapter 22

**Winter Rose**

* * *

 _Sumarokov Palace_

 _The apartments of Princess Nashtya Sumarokov_

* * *

"But how is it to be done?"

The sodden handkerchief lowered slightly. From behind the lacy folds, Nashtya's blue eyes peeped in curiosity.

As this was the first since that Nashtya had raised her face from the handkerchief since they entered, Violet could take it as an improvement.

The Countess of Grantham raised her cup of hot tea to her lips. Luckily, the steam hid her smile of triumph. "Like all good plans: so simply that Count Niemov will not even suspect it."

The handkerchief lowered completely. Nashtya's face emerged from its folds. Blotchy and worn after two days of tears, she seemed exhausted by the storm of her own emotions. Although the hour was already well past noon, she was not yet dressed. Instead, she had greeted her two visitors in a crumpled blue negligee, a fringed shawl tossed around her shoulders for warmth.

Violet's eyes skimmed her surroundings. The room they were in was in a similar stay of disarray. The curtains shrouded the windows, throwing the pretty receiving chambers into gloom. Books lay scattered around the floor, as though Nashtya had picked them up, then discarded them again in her distraction. When they entered first, the room had been chilly, with no fire lit in the grate. The servants, unaccustomed to their mistress's complete abandonment of life, stood around in corners, whispering and wringing their hands.

It had taken twenty minutes and several sharp commands, translated through Katya, to send the servants bustling about once again to their appointed tasks. A fire was lit, the books removed to the palace library and, with a look of relief blooming on his face, Nashtya's tea-maker was set to preparing the samovar for tea. Through it all, Nashtya sat like a child, permitting her maid to brush her hair and slip stockings and slippers on her feet without a murmur of protest.

At last, they were settled. The three women gathered about the fire, cocooned in the heat thanks to the number of fire screens shielding them from the window droughts. The samovar bubbled on the trolley beside them, a homely ripple of sound. Beyond the screens, Violet could hear the rumble of carriages in the street and the murmur of serving maids setting Nashtya's bedchamber to rights. But within their circle, it was only the three of them. And her plan.

"Violette, you must let me repeat this for I can not understand." Nashtya resettled her shawl across her shoulders, a hint of her old spark breaking through. "You have a plan to restore the accord between my little Kolya and Lidia Niemov? To arrange it, so they may continue to meet? And all without the knowledge of Ivan?"

"Yes."

"But _how_?"

"That too I would like to know." Katya set aside her own cup and sat forward on the _chaise_. "Violet refused to breathe a word the whole way from the Hermitage Gallery. I could not break her silence on the matter!"

Violet smiled. When the idea first struck her in the gardens of the Hermitage, it had been so ridiculous and yet so easy that she had hesitated herself. Through the carriage ride to Nashtya's palace through the crowded city streets, she took the time to turn the matter over and over in her mind, searching for disadvantages or pitfalls that would lead to their undoing.

Perhaps she was foolish or blinded by her own cleverness but so far Violet could see none.

"You told me yourself, Nashtya, how much Count Niemov admires the English system of politics."

"Yes, of course." At the mention of Ivan Niemov's name, Nashtya's face fell into fold of misery once more. "It was Ivan himself who enlightened me on the system, through Monsieur Bagehot's work. _Alors_ so many hours we spent on that book…"

"And you understand the Earl is someone much involved in English politics, in our House of Lords." Violet continued on, cutting across her friend before the Princess grew maudlin once more. "So naturally, for a young girl who wished to understand her father's interests in an English style of government _better_ …"

"Who better to teach her than an English Countess!" Katya clapped her hands. "I see where your mind goes, Violet!"

"I do not." Nashtya glanced from one to the other, a frown creasing between her wide blue eyes. "Violette, _cherie_ , explain to me, please."

"It is simple, Nashtya. I shall gain an invitation to meet with Lidia Niemov. Surely, her father can not keep the girl locked away from all society? But when we meet," Violet gave an elaborate shrug. Her lips twitched with pleasure. "I am still new to this city. I could not walk about a park unescorted, could I?"

"And who better to escort you than the young Count who has been equerry to the Russian Embassy in London for the past year or more?" Nashtya sat bolt upright. Her shawl toppled from her shoulders in excitement. " _Vraiment_ , now I understand!"

"It helps that the Count is known to cling to your skirts - forgive me, Nashtya, but it is true - like a child. No one could suspect that he would be interested in any woman other than you." Katya's pearl earrings glittered in the mass of her dark hair as she laughed. "Yes, Violet. Me, I like this plan."

"As you say, it is simple." Nashtya bounced to her feet. From a depressed languor, her mood jumped, as suddenly as a leaping flame, to surging energy. She turned a tight circle in front of the fire, spinning around to meet the two women still sitting on the couch. "So simple, I know Ivan Niemov will not suspect it. Ivan, his mind works like a maze. Twists and turns." Her hands drew the swirls in the air. "He would never think to take the short route. _Incroyable_!"

Not for the first time, Violet wondered how deep the friendship between Nashtya and Count Niemov went. Certainly, Nashtya had taken the Count's rejection far harder than one would expect from two people bound only by their Anglophile tastes in literature.

If that was the case - if the Count and the Princess had indeed been lovers - well, there was a lesson there. The same one Violet had learnt long ago: avoiding risk, particularly in affairs of the heart, was its own reward.

Another reason to avoid Igor Kuragin. As if another reason was needed.

* * *

 **Violet Crawley: a romantic under it all.**

 **So will everything go according to Violet's plan?**

 **I know these chapters are quite short and don't have much action but hang in there! A bit of a surprise is coming up!**

 **Hope you enjoy this chapter anyway and thank you for reading and reviewing!**


	23. Chapter 23

**Winter Rose**

* * *

 _Anchikov Palace_

 _The apartments of the Earl and Countess of Grantham_

* * *

The first thing Violet noticed was the luggage trunk.

It sat, like a brown slug, in the centre of the doorway, right at the foot of the staircase. Several locks secured its contents and leather straps bound the sides of the trunk together.

Judging by the two footmen, struggling down the stairs with a second, identical trunk, its contents were considerable.

"Arkady!"

The butler materialised in the doorway of the drawing room. On seeing his mistress, he glided forward. Another footman hurried in his wake, his hands already outstretched to receive Violet's hat and cloak.

Arkady took the first of Violet's gloves with a low bow. "Countess. We had not expected your return so soon. You, boy! Some tea for the Countess."

"No tea, thank you." Violet held out her hand to stop the boy in his tracks. Blue eyes fixed on the cringing butler. Arkady refused to meet her gaze, keeping his head bowed low as though she would strike him. "Arkady, what is the meaning of this?"

Her bare hand swept back, encompassing the two trunks as well as the sweating, bewigged footmen. "I was not informed that we would be leaving Petersburg." Her words clipped and with each sharp syllable Arkady shrank lower. "On whose authority did you begin to pack my things and order my trunks and…"

"That would be mine."

Violet lifted her head at the unexpected interruption, her frown still lingering on her face.

Patrick descended the stairs slowly. His fingers tucked in to the pocket of his waistcoat, as casually as though he had just invited her to join him for some pre-dinner sherry.

"Yours!"

For one absurd moment, Violet thought Patrick was leaving her. That, somehow, news of her indiscretion had reached his ears and he would abandon her with less notice than he would evict one of his tenants back at Downton.

That was ridiculous. She gave herself a shake.

Raising her eyebrows in cool surprise, she followed Patrick with her eyes as her husband made his slow descent of the stairs to stand beside her. "Are we escaping the creditors then?"

"Not just yet, dear wife." Pausing beside her, Patrick gave the two trunks that had caused so much disruption one cool glare. "Merely departing."

She would not, Violet promised herself, react as she had before, when Patrick announced that he would uproot her from London on the eve of her sister's debut. She would not give Patrick the satisfaction of it.

Instead, she handed the second of the gloves to Arkady's waiting hands and nodded dismissal. "Thank you, Arkady. You may go."

The Russian bent to a low bow of relief. He retreated to the baize door at the end of the hallway in a stately glide. His underling, his arms full with Violet's furs, has no such care for his own dignity. He jogged backwards as swiftly as propriety allowed.

After only a few weeks, every servant in the Anchikov palace knew to keep out of the way when the Earl and Countess has one of their private conversations.

Violet studied her husband's mild expression in silence. There was so little to read there. Patrick had, long ago, mastered the art of locking all his emotions away under a veneer of indifference to the world around him. Even his eyes, opaque as wood, gave little away. Sometimes, it was as though the rumours were true: that the Fourth Earl of Grantham, dead and cold for more than thirty years had more life and kindness about him than his breathing, moving son.

She had wondered. The other night when Patrick has asked to share her bed, the first time in weeks, he had seemed different. Caring even. There had been no barbed compliments, no reprimand for her lack of decorum. He had been - of all the strangest things - _vulnerable_.

Any hint of that night had vanished as she looked at Patrick now in the hallway of their apartments. He examined her in return, as though trying to gauge her reaction. As though it were a game.

Well, Violet was sick of his games.

She tilted her chin in cool indifference to match his own. The expression settled on her face with the familiarity of an old mask. "I do wish you would be a little less cryptic, Patrick. I need to know if I must send my regrets to our hosts this evening or not."

"Your regrets, no. Mine, yes."

"How unusual. Am I to attend in spirit, then, since I presume my physical body shall be onboard ship?"

"Your delightful body, dear wife, shall remain in St Petersburg. As, I hope, will your spirit." Patrick turned away and pushed open the door of the drawing room. "Mine shall be elsewhere."

Violet scarcely noticed the papers strewn in a disorganised mess across the desk in the left-hand corner of the room. She marched into the room in his wake. "I _beg_ your pardon?"

"Dear Violet, I think this is the first time you have begged me for anything."

In they had been in London, Violet would have absorbed this taunt without a murmur. After all, that was the lot of wives, was it not? To endure their husbands' attentions, whatever form that might take.

As it was, in her Petersburg drawing room, Violet felt her fists curl with the effort not to fling something at the wall. Her nails had already dug deep into her palms before she even realised the direction of her thoughts.

Horrified, she forced her palms flat, smoothing them along her skirts. Violet Crawley, Countess of Grantham never considered such actions! She was a lady. Ladies never expressed their anger so… Exuberantly. Ladies never did anything with exuberance. A lady conducted herself with quiet elegance, such that it commanded the approval of everybody in the room.

For the first time, the thoughts crossed Violet's mind that she did not want to be considered a lady anymore. How much better to simply be a woman, who screamed and threw things and kissed…

"And now silence. Goodness." Patrick paused in front of the low fire, his hand still tucked into his waistcoat. One eyebrow raised in a quizzical fashion. "A paragon of a spouse. Listening for my every word."

" _I dislike paragons. They do not interest me."_

Pushing the memory of the skating party from her mind, Violet settled herself on the chaise. "But they are such interesting words, Patrick. Spirits and bodies. Are we to talk hearts and minds next?"

He ignored her provocation. "I have been invited to join a shooting party with Prince Gorchakov. I leave tonight."

"Tonight?" The abruptness startled Violet almost as much as the luggage trunks in the hall. "So soon? For how long?"

"Three weeks, at least. The Prince's estate is some distance south of Moscow. He has commissioned a train to transport us there and there will be another day of travelling by carriage to reach his estate."

"Moscow!"

All of her friends, from Katya to Count Nicholas had spoken of the train journey to Moscow as one might describe a journey from Heaven to Hell. Even taking natural prejudice into account, the thirteen-hour train journey south sounded desperately uncomfortable, even dangerous.

Violet half-rose to her feet. "And you will leave me here for three weeks -alone?"

Patrick gave her a strange look. "Hardly alone, dear wife. After all, you seem amply supplied with your new Russian friends. And I am sure the puppy Sumarokov will offer a respectful escort should you require it."

Good God, he still thought Nicholas Sumarokov was infatuated with her! Violet bit back her sharp retort at Patrick's barb and took her seat again. "I trust there is a reason for this impromptu gathering? More than simply emptying the Russian countryside of game?"

"The Prince and I have traded views. He finds my experience of travelling in Prussia and the German states interesting." Patrick's deliberate understatement raised Violet's suspicions. She shook her head so her pearl ear-drops swung.

"Still focussed on your 'career', dear husband?" And she had thought he was changing. Mellowing even.

Nothing changed. Patrick did not change. The same driving ambition that ordered her to attend interminable dinners by his side, that had lifted her from her comfortable life in London to deposit her in a strange, foreign city now ordered him to leave her in that same city, alone.

Violet allowed herself a small smile at the foolish thoughts of mere minutes ago. How could she think simple geography would alter a man so rigid he seemed carved of stone? Patrick had his preferences and they…

She stilled. Katya's stray gossip whispered in the back of her mind. But surely not. Not again. Not so soon after..

Violet sat back on the chaise. Her hand stretched negligently across the headboard, her thumb brushing the carved eagle at the point. That was the only sign she permitted of the churning nausea, the humiliation she felt burning in the pit of her stomach. "I take it this is a gentleman's gathering then? No wives or sweethearts?"

She raised her voice at the end, a mocking twist.

If he was surprised at her sudden surrender after only one volley, Patrick did not reveal it. "Some ladies will attend, I presume. Relatives of the Prince."

"But none from Petersburg? How disappointing. I thought Russian ladies more adventurous than we English."

"Again, some. I do not know of the exact number. The Prince introduced me to one or two today. His niece is to play hostess, since his wife is ill."

"How… selfless of her. Have I met her? Since I am so 'amply supplied' with Russian friends?"

The final bittersweet jab seemed to restore Patrick's equilibrium. He returned his usual, mocking smirk. "Countess Marya Barinov is her name I believe."

"No, I do not recognise it."

 _Katya was mistaken_. The churning subsided a little.

"The Prince told me she does not go out much in society. Her sister, who also joins us, is more vivacious. Darya Mikhailovna."

When he smiled over her name, Violet knew.

To her surprise, it _hurt_.

"No." Her voice held steady. "I have not had that pleasure either."

"You do surprise me. I thought you knew all the best people in this city. The Sumarokovs, the Princess Dolgorukov, the Kuragins."

"Not the Barinovs. In that, you have the advantage of me, dear husband."

"It is a useful connection to have. And Countess Darya Barinov has a charming interest in politics."

 _More than my own wife_. Violet heard the words Patrick left unsaid. How many Faberge emeralds had it cost the Grantham fortune for Darya Mikhailovna to feign interest in Patrick's constant political babble?

"How gratifying for you, Patrick." Violet rose to her feet. She needed to fill her hands with something, _anything_ , to keep them from shaking and betraying her agitation. "I am glad to hear that Countess Barinov is enough of a distraction you need not count the days until you return."

She strolled over to the over-crowded desk. Papers lay strewn across the leather-covered top. Evidence of Patrick's haste to depart. A train schedule here, some notes in the Earl's familiar scrawl.

"Is that a note of reproach, Violet?"

"An entire song of reproach, dear husband." Violet shifted some sheets to the side, uncovering a ten-day-old copy of the _Times_. "But do not concern yourself. As you said, I am amply supplied with my Russian friends."

"I hoped you would miss me."

Her hand froze. There it was again, in the midst of all the mocking questions and caustic remarks. That note of vulnerability. Could she have it wrong? Could she be mistaken in her assumptions?

Perhaps Katya was mistaken and it was not an Englishman who had caught the interest of Darya Mikhailovna. Perhaps _Violet_ was mistaken and it was some other Englishman. The Prince of Wales, the Duke of Argyll. Even Hepworth could afford a necklace of emeralds if he tried.

Igor had said that he saw the two of them flirting together. But Igor was blinded by his own plans, just as Violet was blinded by her prejudices. They could be wrong, both of them.

It need not be her husband.

It need not be Patrick.

Her head spun from this incessant leap from one side to the other.

A page fell the floor, breaking her concentration. Violet tsked with irritation and bent down. It had fallen face down and as she lifted it, she turned it about. Another train schedule or notes or some such…

Florid script, in Western and Russian alphabets spilled in front of her eyes. It was printed, not written, the way her own letter paper was headed with the Grantham crest.

The Western script spelled out: _Faberge_.

* * *

 **Dun-dun-duuuuunnnn!**

 **So Patrick is wandering off to the countryside with a Russian flirt, Violet is left alone in Petersburg trying to play matchmaker and Igor? Will he take advantage of his opportunity or will he keep his word to let Violet make the first move?**

 **And never forget Horrible Harold Hepworth...**

 **Hope you enjoyed this next chapter! Let me know what you think of how the story is going so far and thank you for reading it!**


	24. Chapter 24

**Winter Rose**

* * *

"Are you certain?"

It was the third time that Count Nicholas had asked that question.

He sat across from Violet and even in the relatively spacious confines of Nashtya's wide barouche carriage, it felt too close for comfort. In his nerves, the Count had a terrible habit of fidgeting with every article of clothing he possessed. He twiddled with the buttons on his glove cuffs. He moved his top hat from the leather seat beside him, set it on his lap. Then, after twenty seconds of running his fingers around the curved brim, resettled it on the seat again.

It was all Violet could do not to smack his fingers.

 _Robert_ , she privately vowed, _will_ never _develop such an irritating habit. Even if I must stand over him with a birch rod for the next ten years of his life._

Count Nicholas tugged on his lapels. Violet's fingers tightened into fists. She turned her head away and stared through the frosted glass of the carriage window.

Outside, the streets of St Petersburg seemed to float past them as though part of a dream. Snow glittered on the roadside and on the iron railings that girded either side of the Anchikov Bridge. On the pavements, stalls and barrowmen shouted their wares. Against the glittering snow, the fruit stood out like jewels. If Violet peered past the flow of pedestrians, she could look beyond to the wide, white stretch of the Neva below.

Like the Thames of London, the Neva was the centre of life in the Russian capital. All life flowed along its passage. In summer, Count Nicholas told her, one could scarcely see the water it was so choked with the ships and barges of commerce. Now though, the Russian winter was so cold, it had frozen the water to a giant block of ice. Instead of barges pushing through the ripples, the inky trail of a tram-line stretched from under the Anchikov Bridge, far into the centre of the city ahead.

The tram line was not running that day. Violet regretted that. The machine would at least have provided some distraction from the Count's constant nerves. Heavens, the man was a child!

She was unfair. The Count was tiresome with his fidgets but it was not that which had plunged her into such a black mood. She had begun the day like that. Yesterday as well.

Ever since discovering Patrick's renewed infidelity, it seemed like the world was constricting upon her. There was no where to escape the sham that her life had become.

She had thought, briefly, just a little… On the night of the royal wedding, when Patrick approached her in her rooms, she had imagined for one brief instant that he had changed.

That the sum of his small moments of kindness and consideration over the past weeks since they arrived in Russia were coming to full bloom.

That Igor had been wrong and her sacrifices were not born from a misguided sense of vengeance. That she had been right to stop their kiss, even when her heart burned to go further.

That her marriage had a _chance_.

A slim chance, a broken chance. But enough that she would not become like her mother-in-law. A bitter, unbending dowager, eyeing the world with suspicion from the drawn curtains of her home.

She wanted to make a family. Instead, she deluded herself and she played for a fool.

If Katya and Nashtya knew of Darya Mikhailovna's infatuation with an Englishman, it was safe assumption that the news was common gossip in the _salons_ of St Petersburg. It was only a matter of time before she was humiliated again. Forced to confront her husband's mistress in the same social circles that she attended.

To become the laughing stock of another city. An object for pity and disparagement.

The thought of seeing pity in Igor's eyes sent a roll of anger squeezing against her chest.

He had known. Rationally, she knew that there was nothing he could have done to prevent Patrick from embarking on the new _affaire_. But he had _known_ and in some twist of illogic that made him as culpable for her pain as though he had arranged the affair from the start.

He, too, had played her for a fool.

"Lady Grantham?"

She should not have concocted this ridiculous scheme. It could not possibly work. Love?

What was that when set against hard reality?

It would be kinder to-

"Lady Grantham, do you attend?"

Violet jumped. A prickle of embarrassment stung her cheeks. The Count regarded her anxiously from the seat opposite. If he had any idea of the direction of her thoughts-!

No one who looked on Nicholas Sumarokov that morning could doubt that love was a sickness. The fresh shave and immaculate attire his valet had shoe-horned him into that very morning served only to underline the state of near collapse in which he had existed since that night at the Kuragins' skating party. If Violet had thought him a walking spectre at the Royal wedding, it was nothing to ghoul he had become in the intervening four days.

It had taken the better part of a day and several cups of fortifying Russian black tea to convince the Count to follow their plan.

To tell the truth, the majority of the persuasion had fallen to Nashtya. The thought of successfully concluding the marriage of her nephew to Lidia Niemov against the wishes of the Count, her father, had given the Princess a new lease of life. She had been unstoppable: berating the shattered Sumarokov until he relented to their plan.

Nothing had been required of Violet but to sit in silent support. She doubted she would have been capable of much else what with her mind still reeling from her discovery of the Faberge invoice.

Even today, bundling them into the carriage with good wishes, Nashtya had remained unconvinced that her nephew would carry out the plan. Violet was instructed _sotto voce_ to remain close by should an attack of etiquette cause the Count to refuse to exit the carriage at the vital moment.

Count Nicholas wet his lips. Anxious grey eyes studied her face. "Lady Grantham, you are… You are _certain_ , yes? that the Countess Lidia, she will be in attendance?"

Violet lifted her hands and resettled her veil, the better to cover the circles that punched under her eyes. "Naturally, Count. I received another note from the Countess only this morning, confirming the time of our meeting."

"And the Count Niemov, her father?" Count Nicholas swallowed. "He is still in agreement?"

"Most assuredly."

Truthfully, Lidia's note, in scribed in large, girlish copperplate, had made mention of a potential chaperone. Something her father had insisted upon. However, the girl had continued airily that she foresaw no complications from the unexpected addition. She had concluded with a fulsome four paragraphs praising Violet's kindness and swearing undying friendship.

"I do not like to deceive Count Niemov." Sumarokov declared suddenly. "He is a most upright gentleman. Very correct and a man that one cannot help but look up to."

It was fortunate for their plan, Violet reflected, Niemov's daughter did not share the same scruples.

Still she summoned a smile from somewhere and turned it on the sweating Count. "He sounds an altogether fearsome prospect."

"Most assuredly, _yes_."

The fervent agreement made her smile come a little easier. A dashing Romeo, Count Nicholas was _not_.

The carriage jerked to a halt. Count Nicholas swept up his top hat from the seat beside him. Before the driver had even descended from his perch at the front of the carriage, the Count had the door open. He leapt down from the vehicle, skidding on a stray patch of ice.

Latching on to the door of the carriage for support, Count Nicholas made a valiant attempt to regain his dignity. Only the tips of his ears, protruding a little from his fashionable top hat betrayed his embarrassment.

Returning to a stand, he motioned carriage driver forward to let down the steps for Violet. The driver did so, restricting himself to one reproachful frown at the impatient young nobleman who had now removed his hat completely and was running the starched brim through his fingers.

Violet accepted the gloved hand held out to her and managed to descend the carriage with her dignity intact. For the second tie in as many days, she looked up to the colonnaded entrance of the State Hermitage Museum.

It had been Katya's idea that they should meet here. Somewhere so blatantly public, the Princess declared, and so universally dull must, by definition, defy any hint of a secret assignation.

"Believe me, Violet." Katya had declared, as she sat beside Violet in composing the note to Count Niemov. "It is impossible to conceive of anything _risqué_ in between the scowling faces of those hideous Roman busts."

Count Nicholas had not believed them. But then, the Count was still agonising over the morality of their deception when Count Niemov's acceptance of the invitation was delivered several hours later.

Accompanied by the formal letter was a small note, dashed off in a childish scrawl and drenched in lavender water. Lidia Niemov thanked the Countess of Grantham sincerely for her offer. She was desperately looking forward to the excursion. But, the Countess must understand. Her English was not the best. Perhaps, if the Countess knew a suitable translator, she would permit _him_ to accompany them?

"A suitable translator?"

Nashtya peered at the innocent note through her opera glasses. Her lips curved in a proud smirk. "Such as a young man who has spent the last year in London, speaking nothing but English? Ah, Violette! The little minx is a clever one, is she not? Just what my Kolya needs." She added in an undertone, nodding towards the star-struck Count.

The three women turned as one, just in time to catch Count Nicholas tucking the lavender scented note carefully into his waistcoat pocket. Catching their eyes, the young man flushed to roots of his hair. He sought a speedy exit through the drawing room door, covering his retreat with a mumbled promise to bring back more pancakes and tea for their refreshment.

Had she ever been that… _transparent_ , Violet wondered. Even now, the Count kept throwing hopeful glances upwards, into the shadows of the entry-way as though Lidia Niemov would suddenly appear at the top of the steps. Had she ever been like that with Patrick? Had Patrick ever felt like that for her?

 _No_.

The firm realisation sat like a lead ball in her stomach, dragging her back even as she took Count Nicholas's arm to make the shallow ascent to the entrance of the museum.

Like before, the museum was busy but few of the attendees were sufficiently well-born to claim acquaintance with either Violet or Count Nicholas. Rotund shopkeepers and their wives, proud in their Sunday best, strolled along the grand entrance hall in groups. Their chatter, in nasal accents of the city, reached all the way up to the painted ears of Greek gods stretched in casual nudity across the vaulted ceiling.

Count Nicholas hurried Violet through the crowds with a suspicious glance at the skeletal man in red velvet gesturing to the crowd from the foot of a large landscape scene. Passing into the hall of statues, he drew up as abruptly as he had begun.

"This is the place, Lady Grantham?"

"This is the place, Count."

Katya was right, Violet thought. Around them, groups moved at a stately pace in between the white marble limbs. In contrast to the yells of the street and the high-pitched chatter of the entry, here, conversation was limited to a quiet word between friends, the voices scarcely rising above the decorous tap-tap of heeled boots against the tiles. A studious air pervaded the room, more pungent than any library.

No one would dream of conducting a secret assignation in a place of such unimpeachable respectability. Unless one was the scandalous Princess Dolgorukov.

"I do not see her."

"I would not advise making your search quite so obvious, Count." Violet raised her eyebrows. "Straining to look beyond the statutory _might_ suggest to others that you are not here simply for the art."

"Of course." The Count popped his head back, a flush staining his cheeks. "Lady Grantham is entirely appropriate." He cleared his throat. "This is a great chamber."

"Indeed." Since the length of it seemed to stretch a full half-mile from end to end, agreement was the only option.

"The museum is the masterpiece of Russian civilisation and artistic taste. It was begun by the great Tsar Ekaterina Alexeyevna but much extended under the ruler of the great Tsar Nicholas I. He commissioned the architect with much talent, von Klenze…"

In his anxiety, Count Nicholas fell back onto what he knew best: instructing foreigners on the glories of Mother Russia.

They had reached the year 1852 and the 'most glorious and generous gift of his Excellency the Duke of Leuchtenburg' of the Egyptian collection when Violet spotted, at the other end of the hall, a confection of white feathers perched on top of a head of blonde ringlets. She touched Count Nicholas on the elbow, mercifully cutting off his monologue on Egyptian deities.

"Count, is that..?"

The effect on the Count was electric. His mouth stopped moving instantly. Instead it hung open in a fair imitation of one of the marble fish that swam about the feet of the statue of Neptune.

If Count Nicholas seemed determined to leave Violet in suspense, the same could not be said of the young blonde advancing towards them as fast as any young woman in a set of heeled boots could manage.

"Lady Grantham! I am so delighted to make you acquaintance once again!"

Lidia Niemov's accented English hailed Violet from across the room. In the dedicated hush of the Hermitage Museum, the sudden cacophony of foreign sounds made more than one group turn about in consternation and drew tuts of disapproval from the uniformed guards standing sentinel at the doorways.

A cut above the crowd, in her own mind as well as in theirs, Lidia Niemov took not a scrap of notice. Her pretty features were wreathed in smiles. She held out a leather-gloved hand.

"It was _so kind_ of you to agree to instruct me in the ways of the English Parliament." She announced to the gallery at large, throwing pointed nods about the room.

Violet was forced to bite her lip to stop the smile that, despite everything, tickled her lips. For someone who needed a translator of Count Nicholas's dubious skill, Lidia Niemov's grasp of the English language was remarkable.

"I am flattered you agreed to join me, Countess." Violet took the two fingers held out to her and shook them once. Lidia's obvious delight in the deception of her father was infectious, banishing the shadows for a moment. "You are acquainted with Count Nicholas Sumarokov?"

Count Nicholas coloured up to his sideburns. Lidia turned bright pink, suddenly knocked from her position of airy poise. She turned a shy smile up at the Count from under her eyelashes.

Since Violet received no answer except for the speaking glances between the two young lovers, she could, she reflected with a smile, take that as an affirmative.

Now, she had only to deal with Count Niemov's designated chaperone. If the woman was anything like the spinsters and dowagers that made up the bunch of paid companions to London debutantes, Violet was confident she would have little trouble.

Perhaps the woman would not speak English. In that case, they would have to persevere with Violet's schoolgirl French. She had noticed since arriving in Petersburg that most of the upper classes spoke that language habitually amongst themselves, only breaking into Russian to converse with lower servants.

The thought of stumbling through French conjugations and the _plus-perfect_ tense with a staid and proper chaperone was enough to restore Violet's bad humour. But she had told Lidia and Count Nicholas that she would be happy to do so and, whatever the truth of it, that would be how she would conduct herself.

She touched Lidia's elbow. "Countess, perhaps you will introduce me to your chaperone?"

"My… Oh!" Tearing her gaze away from her young swain, the Countess gave Violet a bright smile. "But, Lady Grantham, you do not need an introduction, I think?"

"I am flattered you think I am so popular in St Petersburg, Countess, but.."

"But, you and Prince Kuragin already converse so well!"

"Prince…"

"Yes, indeed." Lidia gave an expressive shrug. Once her attention was distracted from Count Nicholas, her natural buoyancy bobbed to the surface once again. "Of course, it should have been the Princess-"

 _Thank Heavens it was not._ Violet's traitorous mind whispered with a sigh. A ten minute conversation in a public ballroom was difficult enough to endure with the prickly Irina. Let alone an afternoon _tete-a-tete_.

But was enduring the verbal barbs of the Princess any preferable to storm of apprehension surging through her veins at the thought of confronting Igor again, after…

 _Are you so sure it is nerves, Violet?_

"-the Princess is much occupied these days." Lidia made a pout. "Or so she told Papa. But Igor offered and since I knew that you and he were acquainted…"

 _You thought I made a better distraction than most so you could enjoy your meeting with Count Nicholas uninterrupted._

"I see."

Lidia's bright smile faltered a little at the curt words. In her innocence, she clearly imagined nothing more untoward than mutual friendship simmered between Violet and the Russian prince.

"Was it wrong? But otherwise, Papa would only permit me to come with the attendance of Helena Aksyutin. She is-" Lidia hesitated. "Not amusing. She does not approve of me, I think. And Igor…"

It had not escaped Violet's notice that Count Nicholas appeared as discomfited by the unexpected inclusion of Igor Kuragin as she did. However _amusing_ Igor was. He cleared his throat.

"Lid- Countess, perhaps it is not of the most opportune that the Prince should-"

" _Tak_! Of what should he object? We do meet in a public place and Lady Grantham is the kindest lady in the world who will entertain stuffy old Igor with his talk of books and such until we are content…"

Lidia Niemov was busy flitting from adoration to annoyance with the Count. Count Nicholas was torn between apprehension and exasperation. The very first assignation had dived from joy to acrimony so quickly that Violet did not even here the tap of approaching heels.

At least, until it was too late to do anything about it.

"So, Lidia, I see you have found your way here without assistance."

It was a point of pride to Violet that she did not gasp. That would be a break. She did not intend for her control to break. Or her anger.

 _He had known. And he did nothing._

She turned around and lifted her head, ready to meet the accusations in Igor's black-eyed gaze.

Only to find that for the first time since they met, he was not looking at her.

Instead, Prince Igor Kuragin's eyes lanced across the flushing face of Nicholas Sumarkov. His lips tightened and the skin pulled tight across his cheekbones.

"But not unaccompanied."

His voice chilled the air with disapproval. Count Nicholas swallowed hard. Violet bit her lip.

It seemed Lidia's easy-going companion was about to prove very intractable indeed.

* * *

 **Hello! I'm really sorry about the delay in the chapters - things have been crazy (when are they not) with work and studying (and I really should be studying now) but I haven't forgotten the story, promise! It's just going a little slower than hoped... :(**

 **Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter! I admit, once we got to the kiss and then _Patrick_ , it was a bit of: "what the heck is Violet going to do now?" Stick it out with Patrick, suffering in silence, like last time? Or is she going to say (in a much more lady-like fashion): damn it all, Igor, kiss me again! **

**Well, I know which one I would choose but...**

 **Of course, at the same time we have Igor equally at sixes and sevens with _his_ marriage and _his_ feelings for Violet... Which are about to get a lot more uncomfortable and close to the bone for our happy-go-lucky Prince. **

**Again, I hope you enjoyed the chapter (despite my monologue at the end) - please review/favourite or even just give a satisfied sigh and tune in next time! :)**


	25. Chapter 25

**Winter Rose**

* * *

 _ **Previously..**_

 _ **"So, Lidia, I see you have found your way here without assistance."**_

 _ **It was a point of pride to Violet that she did not gasp.**_

 _ **She turned around and lifted her head, ready to meet the accusations in Igor's black-eyed gaze.**_

 _ **Only to find that for the first time since they met, he was not looking at her.**_

 _ **Instead, Prince Igor Kuragin's eyes lanced across the flushing face of Nicholas Sumarkov. His lips tightened and the skin pulled tight across his cheekbones.**_

 _ **"But not unaccompanied."**_

 _ **His voice chilled the air with disapproval. Count Nicholas swallowed hard. Violet bit her lip.**_

 _ **It seemed Lidia's easy-going companion was about to prove very intractable indeed.**_

* * *

 _State Hermitage Museum_

"Igor!"

Lidia's voice could have shattered glass with its forced cheerfulness. She laid her hand up on her heart. "You startled us."

"I have no doubt I did." Igor's voice was smooth but his dark brows gathered together. His gaze dropped to Lidia's gloved hand laid on the black broadcloth of Count Nicholas's arm, like diamond on velvet. "I am… surprised myself."

Count Nicholas dropped his arm instantly, leaving Lidia's hand floating in mid-air. He shuffled his heels together in a half-hearted click. " _Excellence_ \- ah, forgive-"

"To translate English, I think, was the reason Lady Grantham gave for your presence here, Sumarokov?"

The look Igor gave her made Violet's brows draw together and sent her own temper sparking. Lidia, in contrast, seemed cast from her previous confidence to the position of a child. She bowed her head, as though ready to receive a scolding from an older brother.

Count Nicholas was not much better. The sudden frosty reception from a man known for his influence in Court and the city disconcerted the young man completely. " _Milles_ \- a thousand pardons, Excellency. Yes, of a certainty."

"Then since I speak English as well, your presence is no longer required?"

"I-"

"I would have to disagree, Prince Kuragin."

Lidia let out a gasp. But Violet ignored her. Squaring her shoulders, she folded her lips in a firm line and met Igor's eyes.

The frown had not lifted from between his eyes even as he made the obligatory bow of greeting. "Lady Grantham. We do not speak for so long, I thought you had forgotten my existence."

It was easy to construe those words as a joke, just a light conversation as anyone would say in polite company. Very easy. And very wrong.

Violet kept her face serene. It would never do for Lidia or Sumarokov to guess at the by-play beneath their words. "I forget very little, Prince Kuragin. Including the fact that we are in a public hall with much Of St Petersburg's _bourgeoisie_ observing us?"

Her words made Sumarkov start and Lidia's head to droop a little lower. If she hoped they had the arresting same effect on Igor, Violet was disappointed.

Not a muscle changed in the hard face turned towards her. Only the flick of his eyes at the burghers and plump matrons around them suggested that Igor had any idea of where they were standing.

"A good chaperone," Violet pressed on. "Would never hope to embarrass their charge by forcing her companion to depart like a dismissed servant?"

"Of course." Igor's voice was silky and beneath the silk, hard. "Lady Grantham is always aware of the proprieties."

For a moment there was silence. The chatter of the merchants faded, the clicks of heeled shoes on tiles dulled to a thump.

Why was it, in this moment, all good sense flew away and all Violet could remember was another room, just as quiet, a thousand times more private when their eyes had met in just such a fashion? When they had spoken frankly, honesty fuelled by anger just as now anger fuelled the deceit between them?

Was everything she touched destined to go sour?

 _Not this._ She could not explain why but suddenly, desperately, against all good sense, Violet wanted to keep _this_ clean.

How to explain it? A sane woman would keep Igor at an arm's length. He knew too much of her already, her marriage and herself, and she had only seen his outer facade. It was madness. A mad discovery and all in the middle of a public museum.

But reason was cold and Violet was tired of cold anger and cold politeness that led only to the same scenario, again and again. Perhaps she was ready for a little madness.

"Your highness told me once that you dislike paragons." Violet lifted her hand and held it out, the palm upwards. "Surely you will not now take such a hard line yourself?"

Surprise loosened the hard line of Igor's lips. The gathered brows loosened, like a storm dissipating. It was only a momentary dip before he narrowed his eyes and nodded.

"As so many have said, Lady Grantham has a sharp wit." He nodded once, a sharp jerk of his head. "Very well."

Count Nicholas, so busy frowning over the conversation, did not respond immediately. A sharp elbow in the ribs brought him to his senses. His eyes widened. "Your highness does permit?"

"At Lady Grantham's request." When Sumarokov did nothing but gape in surprise at the sudden turnaround, Igor shook his head. "Boch ti moy, Sumarokov, don't stand there, drawing the attention of the room!"

He sounded so like an exasperated father lecturing a dim son, it startled a smile from Violet.

Count Nicholas took no second hesitation. Offering a bow to Lidia, he held out his arm. She had no such scruples. With a flash of delight, she latched onto Count Nicholas as though afraid Igor would tear the young man physically away. Tucking a loose curl back into her bonnet, Lidia quickly led Count Nicholas towards the first exhibit, not daring to glance back at Igor once.

"Lady Grantham?"

"Prince Kuragin."

It was so easy to place her hand on his arm. A single touch, of palm and fingertips. How was it that now, it felt as intimate to stand so close, to smell again his cologne and pick out with her eyes even the wrinkles on his cravat, as it did to feel his body against her in every line and curve?

Madness. Hot and unreasonable madness.

"Thank you."

It was an inadequate response.

"Because I fell in with your scheme, Violet?" His voice was low. That, coupled with their conversation in English, was enough to ensure privacy. "You chose your place well. How could I refuse without embarrassing Lidia and myself?"

The sudden coolness stilled Violet's thoughts. She stiffened. "So now it is you who wish to quarrel, Igor."

"Strange." They paused in front of a bust of Cicero. The long-nosed orator stared scornfully back. Lidia and Sumarokov were a few paces ahead. "For days I hear nothing and yet now you say my name so casually."

"I have been busy."

"As I see. Planning deceptions and assignations."

"What a change of attitude!" His sudden retreat to disapproval stung. Their roles seemed abruptly reversed. "Are you now the hypocrite?"

"Hypocrite?"

The word was loud enough to draw the attention of the couple beside them. Confused frowns were darted at Violet and Igor before the bourgeois couple moved on, unwilling to be caught up in the aristocratic games. Violet bit her lip and tightened her fingers on Igor's arm.

"Hypocrite?" He lowered his voice but the glare turned in her direction assured Violet that Igor was far from his normal careless pleasure. "You presume too much on our friendship, Lady Grantham."

"Friendship?" _Is that what you call it?_ Was he deliberately provoking her? Was this a game to him?

One glance up through her eyelashes told Violet that whatever Igor had in mind, this was not a game.

Now, what was she to think? From sudden heat to sudden frost in a few days?

"I did not know that Lidia would invite you to act as chaperone."

"Really? From my understanding, you planned this entire event." With every appearance of calm, they moved on to the next statue, a marble likeness of Diana, goddess of the hunt. Violet didn't see a single smooth curve. "Scandal is something only reserved for other people, is that so?"

"I don't understand."

"You encourage Lidia to risk her own reputation in this stupid prank, while you remain unscathed?"

"That is unfair!"

Now it was her voice that drew attention and worried glances from Lidia and Count Nicholas. Violet forced herself to smile. Igor's frown ruined the effect. Soon the entire gallery would know that they were quarrelling.

"Is it? Her father, my friend and neighbour, has expressly forbidden her to speak with Kolya Sumarokov. He has broken his friendship of many years standing with Princess Nasthya because of her collusion in this. Yet still, you encourage her to deceive him?"

"Against a foolish edict, born from prejudice?"

"Against her parent's wishes."

"Parents do not always know what is best for their children." Violet snapped back, Igor's pompous statement rousing her temper. " _Particularly_ in marriage."

As soon as the words left her mouth, she knew she had exposed herself. _That_ was her reason. It had been her reason all along. She had not recognised it. Perhaps, she would never have realised it if Igor had not confronted her so publicly.

Lidia reminded her of her sister. The two girls were of the same age, with the same delicate air and the same whole-hearted belief the world was theirs to achieve. They still harboured illusions that marriage was something to cherish and love - whatever that was - was within their grasp. A delicate belief, as easy to crush as a daisy.

It was to keep that belief alive that Violet had pleaded so hard to remain in London for Dolly's first Season. She could not stand by and see her sister traded to a man who did not care for her simply to improve their family's position in Society. She could not bear to see her sister's illusions shattered the way hers had been shattered in the cool bargaining of the Marriage Mart.

Fate had conspired against her in that. She was here and Dolly had to endure Lady Harriet Steyne's plans without her sister's protection. So it was to Lidia that Violet transferred her protection and her hopes. To keep that hope for a happy marriage alive. That was why she had agreed.

The gold band on her left ring finger seemed to tighten a little. Violet dropped her hand from Igor's arm and her gaze from his. She turned the ring this way and that, as though to ease the restrictions it placed upon her.

A warm hand in the small of her back startled her into lifting her head again.

"What has happened, solnyshka?"

Igor's voice was soft. The hard anger of second before was quieter now, simmering in the depths of his eyes. His hand cupped her elbow and tightened on it, as though afraid she would wrench herself from his grip and storm away.

The Countess of Grantham would never dream of such a scene. But Violet found herself losing sight of that woman more and more the longer she spent with Igor.

"We should move on." There were people watching them. They had spent too long at the statue of Diana.

"Ignore them."

It was so like him to say that. Violet choked back a laugh. It would not do. There was too much hysteria in it. "Don't be foolish."

"Then come." They moved away from the statue. In only a few paces, they had reached the double doors, leading from the Knight's Hall to the outer galleries. Fewer people strayed here, amongst the Flemish landscapes and portraits of fruits. "We may speak better here."

"Lidia…"

"Is perfectly safe. The Count may be a Sumarokov but I doubt he is bold enough to commit any impropriety in a public gallery." He shook his head. "In that, your choice was impeccable, Violet."

"It was Katya who suggested it."

"I am not surprised." His voice turned dry. Violet let out a watery chuckle. He had not removed his hand from the small of her back. She should protest it but found she didn't want to. It was comforting, a strange sensation to have with a man so determined to pursue her.

There was a bench in the centre of the gallery, made for visiting artists to sit and sketch the masterpieces around them. Igor guided her there and there they sat. Opposite ends. He did not sprawl, as he did when she first met him. His back was straight and his legs did not fling out to tangle with the mess of skirts and petticoats that made up her dress. The thought crossed Violet's mind that it had been ten years earlier, any onlooker would presume they were the courting couple, not Lidia and Nicholas Sumarokov.

"So." His hand was on the cushion and inches from her own. "Once again you have a fit of the vapours."

"You will have everyone think I am a very weak person."

"I doubt that. What has happened, Violet?"

"Why do you have to ask?" It came again, the flash of bitterness that had plagued her since Patrick's deception. "You foresaw everything."

Igor paused. He tried to hide it but the instant he understood, Violet could see it. "I am glad."

" _Glad_?"

She made to stand up. Igor's hand shot out and gripped her wrist. "Yes. I am glad. Now you know he is a fool and you have no reason for your loyalty."

"And fall into _your_ arms?"

"That is not what I meant."

"Wasn't it?"

"I have promised you already, Violet. I will not-"

"Kiss me again until I kiss you. I recall!"

A faint smile touched his face. Why he should smile, Violet could not tell, unless it was the perverse pleasure he seemed to take in her anger.

Remembering what had happened last time they had sparred so, Violet lowered her voice and resumed her seat. "Igor, I don't wish to argue."

"A pity."

She had been right. Violet turned her head away and frowned at the bowl of pears in a chairoscuro landscape across the way.

"Will you tell Count Niemov about Lidia's meeting?" She demanded abruptly.

"Count Niemov is an old friend of my family. I have known Lidia since she was a baby."

"So you shall tell him."

He did not disagree. "I do not want to see her hurt. And I know Ivan Niemov has a cousin in Odessa with a widowed son."

"So the match is already arranged!"

"It is understood."

"And that is good enough for society."

It was like a trap, an unending circle. She was being foolish in the extreme to care so much about a girl she scarcely knew. Still, in that moment, Violet had never felt so desperate to take the entire structure that made up her ordered, admired life, and set a match to ignite and burn it from the top down.

"Does her father care nothing for her feelings? Lidia's own wishes? Or does he believe the heart is just an organ, good for pumping blood and nothing more?"

"Did nobody care for yours?"

"Don't!"

He did not let go. The grip on her hand tightened. He tugged and Violet looked back. There was a heaviness in her throat and her eyes prickled as though she had not slept for days. Every movement of her head made her neck ache and looking to Igor, she longed to lay her head on his shoulder, the way she would with her father as a child when the world seemed to big and unfair for a young girl.

His hand lifted, reaching towards her cheek. His eyes studied her, so carefully, she couldn't read his thoughts. For a moment, it was as though he would kiss her, despite his promises. For a moment, that was all Violet wanted.

This time she did not want to say no.

"Lidia deserves the choice." She spoke to fill the silence. "At least until Count Nicholas has the courage to speak to Count Niemov himself."

"And he will?" Igor's voice was sceptical. He had seen Count Nicholas's courage for himself.

"He loves her."

"And that is enough? To defy his family and hers?"

"You make it sound like a death sentence."

"Or madness, _solnyshka_." Igor replied softly. "Utter madness."

* * *

 **Hello! I hope you enjoyed this new chapter - I'm sorry it's been another long stretch since an update (but not so long this time haha!) Thank you for all your reviews on the last chapter!**

 **So Igor and Violet seem to have settled into a state of stalemate at the moment. It might seem a bit surprising that Violet has more faith in love and its existence than Igor (or at least a better opinion of it!) but this is Violet - to quote Spratt (once again) she never likes to do what people expect ㈶0**

 **Again, thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it and thank you, thank you, thank for all the kind reviews! ㈳8㈴2**


	26. Chapter 26

**Winter Rose**

* * *

 _Sumarokov Palace, home of Princess Nashtya Sumarokov_

 _Two weeks later_

* * *

"If that man does not stop in one minute, I swear I shall go mad."

Igor's lips twitched. "You are not enthusiastic about his efforts?"

"Do I enjoy ten pages of blank verse in praise of a woman's eyebrow?" Violet raised her eyebrows at the Prince from behind the safety of her fan. "No."

"But consider." Igor narrowed his eyes at the speaker. In his spotted neck kerchief and disordered hair, he looked like a stuffed peacock on the small stage erected by Nashtya's footmen. "He has art."

"Is that an attempt at humour?"

"Me?"

The innocent look did not deceive. In the two weeks since they commenced the secret courtship of Lidia Niemov and Nicholas Sumarokov, Violet learnt quickly that Igor rarely took anything seriously.

Her own lips threatened to break from their severe expression. To forestall it, Violet turned back to the speaker. He had now moved on from his lover's eyebrow to the mole on her hand.

"I think I know who it is."

"Sssh!"

The indignant hush from behind made the desire to laugh harder to control. Like a naughty child, Violet laid her hand over her wrist and dug her fingernails into her skin, hoping to sting would distract her long enough to control herself.

A larger hand settled itself across her own. Her pinching fingers stilled.

Igor's head tilted towards hers. "It's Lidia."

"What?"

The black eyes danced in glee, like a little boy. "She's had a mole on her hand since she was a little girl. I remember because I used to tease her about it until my nurse scolded me."

"A rival?" It was seductively easy to fall into the rhythm of easy banter. As though every conversation was a continuation of the first. Violet pressed her fingers against her lips to choke down her own giggle. "Please don't say so to Count Nicholas. He's already finding it hard enough to excuse his own deceptions!"

" _Sssh_!"

The second hush recalled them to civility, just in time for the aspiring poet to reach his literary crescendo.

"What is he _saying_?"

"Do you know, I do not think this is a rival."

"You hardly mean it is Count Nicholas?"

"Observe." Igor nodded toward the couple, seated two rows in front, in upright chairs as stiff as dolls. "He is nervous."

Violet lengthened her neck, the better to see the reason for their attendance at one of Nashtya's literary evenings. The young lovers sat firmly side by side, with a space of several inches between their bodies. Lidia's head was turned to the right, the better to chat with her friend in blue silk beside her. Count Nicholas cordially ignored his own companion, the better to fix his gaze on the poet. Violet narrowed her eyes. Igor was right. The Count mouthed the words along with the poet unerringly.

"One would not consider Sumarokov had such hidden depths, no?" Igor's voice rumbled against her ear, enough to send a tingle along the skin of Violet's neck.

They had fallen into this pattern too. It was not quite flirting. Not quite touching. Just a hairs-breadth from the boundaries of behaviour acceptable between two people, each married to other people.

Some would call it playing with fire. Every meeting was planned with the care of generals on campaign. They could not meet in areas too popular with the elite of Petersburg society for fear news would filter back to Count Niemov's ears. Neither could they meet in areas frequented by Violet's English acquaintances, for fear news would filter back to Patrick.

Instead they met in parks and galleries, in carriage rides and once, a memorable time, dashing through the snow on a _droshky_ sleigh. Lidia and Count Nicholas strolled together, hands clasped neatly in front of them and several paces behind, like all good chaperones, Violet and Igor dogged their steps.

In the realm of chaperones, Violet reflected, the two of them fell far short of requirements. Good chaperones should not be so absorbed in their own conversation so as to completely forget the existence of their charges. More than once, they had broken off from their conversation and looked up, only to realise that Count Nicholas and Lidia had wandered out of sight behind a corner or off the path.

Igor, freed from his initial sense of duty to Count Niemov's wishes, had laughed then and voted to let them wander off for the amusement of seeing what would happen. Only when Violet insisted, did he comply and then with a smile that suggested they had as much to gain from the children's absence as the young couple did from theirs.

Perhaps it was the unexpected release that Patrick's absence granted her. Perhaps it was because the number of English courtiers remaining in Petersburg had grown less and less. Or perhaps it was because closer acquaintance with Igor Kuragin did nothing to diminish the attraction she had felt for him, right from the very beginnings of their interaction to the moment when he had kissed her in the drawing room of the Winter Palace.

Whatever the reason that lay behind her pursuit of this reckless game, Violet found it was increasingly difficult to stop.

A burst of applause signalled the conclusion of the epic. Violet broke away from their murmured exchange to join the rest of the room...although whether they celebrated the poem itself or merely the long-awaited conclusion, it was hard to tell.

"If it really was Sumarokov, one could only wish his depths remained hidden." Violet murmured, shaking her head as the speaker delivered one jerky bow after another to his audience. "Love is fragile enough. A strong dose of such poetry is enough to render it quite dead!"

"I shall remember that and make sure never to praise you in verse, Violet."

"No, you had best stick to your French _philosophes_ ," Gathering her skirts together, Violet made to do her duty. She had already seen Lidia glancing around, dismayed by the absence of her respectable barrier. It was madness to linger but Violet turned and slanted a smile at Igor, still sitting in the chair. "What was it Voltaire said? Men who play at poetry are like wasps among birds?"

"It's your sting and not mine that people should fear, _solnyshka_."

She should move on but Violet could never resist the final word in their arguments. "You still have not told the meaning of that word."

Igor smiled in return.

The nerves in Violets' hands tingled with the need to trace its move across his face. The unexpected rush made her step back, made her reply more flippant than she intended. "I can always ask Katya. After all, one Russian knows as much as any other and I am determined to discover the truth of it before I leave."

The easy smile suddenly tightened on Igor's face, drawing his strong dark eyebrows together in a cold frown. As though to belie the sudden tension that frosted the air between them, he sat back, stretching one arm across the back of the chair Violet had so recently exited. "Then, of course, I shall tell you, Violet. On the morning you leave."

Violet stilled. Common courtesy, to say nothing of the easy friendship between them, would demand that Igor stand as soon as she did. The snub was unmistakeable. Other members of the party had already noticed. She did not even need to imagine their whisperings.

Igor did not move. His black eyes gazed up at her, as though challenging her to retaliate for his actions. _What did he expect her to do?_ Violet demanded silently, torn between embarrassment and indignation. Snap back at him, lose her temper and her composure as she had before?

*If they had been alone..* But she could not begin thinking that way. That would suggest that, somehow, Igor was privy to the private parts of herself, the prickly impetuous parts she had kept hidden since she began pinning her hair up in the careful, proper style of a young woman.

She nodded instead, a quick snap of her head. "Soon enough then. If you will excuse me."

She returned the insult by not even dropping a brief bob to soften her departure. Without a backward glance, she made her way across the room to where Lidia stood awkwardly by the side of her swain.

Polite enquiries impeded her progress. New acquaintances, friends of Nashtya and Katya who took the English countess into their circles, touched Violet's elbow, murmuring greetings in French. Violet returned in kind, smiling. It was strange to think that she had gained as many friends in St Petersburg in a few weeks as she had in London in as many years. When she left, as she must, she would miss them.

She realised this. Was it such a difficult concept to grasp, the idea of finite time? How dare Igor... _castigate_ her in such a fashion? Did he imagine he was the only one who-

"Lady Grantham, do you enjoy the presentation?"

"Oh, very much, Lidia."

"Ivan Rostov is very skilled at metaphors, no? 'Her hair is sunshine, her skin is snow'. Me, I think that very pretty." Lidia flushed a little and slipped a glance sideways at Count Nicholas. The Count's cheeks were beet-red.

For once, Violet did not feel in the mood to smile at the antics of the two lovers. Their shyness and feints irritated her and _knowing_ she was irritated by them, knowing _why_ she was irritated, only served to increase her fit of bad temper. So her voice was curt when she replied. "Rather an unusual mix, sunshine and snow. One would expect the lady in question to melt before anyone had the chance to view her."

Silence followed. Count Nicholas went from beet-red to ghost-white in less than a second. The other guests shifted in discomfort, their complacency displaced by Violet's words as effectively as an ice-cube gliding on bare skin.

Hell and damnation smarted on the tip of Violet's tongue.

The Countess of Grantham cleared her throat. "But a pretty image. Yes."

It was a lame addendum.

"Igor!" Grateful for any interruption, Lidia jumped forward, her hands outstretched. "Igor, what did you think?"

Kuragin, Violet thought with a flush of annoyance that stiffened her shoulders, had no trouble in capturing both white palms and pressing a courtly kiss to each. "Pretty words indeed. Did it go on for long?"

 _As though he had not spent the entire time sniggering in my ear_. Violet turned her gaze away, determined not to give Kuragin the satisfaction of her annoyance. She could not miss Lidia's flirtatious smack of her fan against the epaulet and her lips tightened in a thin line.

A line she forced to curve upwards in a warm smile, directed entirely at Count Nicholas, as soon as she realised what was happening.

"Oh, Igor!" If Violet had not known better, she would think the pretty debutante switched her affections from the Count to the far less suitable Prince. "You never listen properly!"

"You know I don't, little one. This modern stuff isn't for me."

Kuragin turned his usual charming smile on the company, black eyes flashing. Not once did he look to Violet, standing like a candle-flame in the midst of the brunettes and ice-blonde heads. Instead, he was all bonhomie. _The jester firmly in place. Not a single crack in the shell._

The resentment that thought brought was quick and shocking, like a surge of bile to the back of her throat. It seemed few others were so affected, if the smiles and chuckles in the small group were anything to go by. One gentleman, a skeletal envoy from the Ottoman embassy who seemed overburdened by his own monocle, shook his head good-naturedly.

"Your highness has attended the incorrect soirée, surely! Princess Nashtya, she is a lady of most modern tastes."

"But you see, Sulayman-Bey, you have uncovered my cunning plan." Igor dropped his smile in comical dismay. "How am I to win Nashtya's converts away from modern literature if I do not attend and discover its secrets?"

" _Ve İşte budur_!" The monocle chuckled and shook his head. "And there it is, the truth eventually!"

"One thing you can guarantee, Sulayman-Bey, is that in Petersburg, all secrets come out eventually." A pretty brunette in lilac shot Igor her own teasing frown. "And Igoryuha has never been able to keep his own counsel for long."

"Hush, _devka_ , wench! Tolik, can you not beat that impertinent wife of yours?"

"Only seven times a day and eight on Sundays." The elegant officer, dressed in the same uniform Igor had worn on the evening of the Winter Palace ball, shrugged off the demand with a nonchalant twitch. "I must agree with our Lady Grantham, however. The modern imagery is a little strange to a simple soldier like me."

"Strange, Colonel Voronov?" The red heat started creeping up Count Nicholas's neck, edging over the white rim of his cravat. "I- I beg to d-d-disagree."

The Colonel twitched his shoulder again. Violet noticed his sleeve was pinned up, his right arm missing from midway between his shoulder and his elbow. "Disagree? Ah… Count?"

 _Baiting him,_ Violet thought and then caught the glance between the Colonel and Igor, a sly curve of the lips. Oh, you… _jester._

She forgot herself and her irritation long enough to send a separate glare in Igor's direction. Right across their little group and in full view of the rest of Nashtya's guests.

It was ridiculous for a grown man to play tricks with his friends on such an easy subject as Count Nicholas. The poem had been overblown and silly, but, _Lord…_

Count Nicholas, missing the glance and incensed on defending his work, reddened deeper. "Of an assurity, Colonel, sir. I- I- consider the work suitable in the extreme."

"It is, indeed, modern. Considering the poet's youth, we cannot expect the influence of the ages past." The Ottoman envoy took a sip from his fragile glass coffee cup.

"Modern sir! It is as modern as landscape! As beauty! As the beauty of subject!"

"I will find myself deeply disappointed if the subject is an old, old woman." Igor let out a lazy drawl. "I do not, myself, see the beauty in age. Only the inconvenience."

"Your highness jests!"

"Dear Count," Violet cut in, laying her hand on Nicholas's sleeve before he so forgot himself and tore his cravat completely off in agitation. "You should consider that when Prince Kuragin appears most in jest, it is then that he is at his most serious."

"With the inference, Lady Grantham," The black eyes sharpened. "That the opposite is also true."

"Now, Igor, please do not interrupt." The brunette clapped her hand, much like a music teacher ending a class. "I am intrigued to hear my husband argue the case. He reads so few books, it is sure to be of interest to hear him argue about literature."

"Perhaps, my darling Roza, I should reconsider my stance on beatings. _Ten_ times a day would be more appropriate?" The smile he turned down and the blush that rose in the brunette's cheeks told a different story. "But I leave Lady Grantham to defend our position with… how do the Holy Scriptures put it? Fire and sword?"

"I am sure you flatter my martial capabilities, Colonel."

"I have a feeling I understate them, Lady Grantham. A woman who…" He paused and twitched his empty sleeve once more. "Forgive me. Continue, Count."

Count Nicholas squared his shoulders. His flush subsided a little and he appeared calmer. A situation, Violet observed, not unrelated to the rapt attention his sudden outburst garnered from Lidia Niemov. The little blonde's arm was still interlinked in Igor's grip but looser now. Her pink lips parted a little in an 'o' of awe.

"The imagery is as timeless as the subject of beauty itself. What can be more than the ancient steppes of our motherland-"

"A patriot, dear God preserve us."

"Igoryuha, _hush._ " This time it was Lidia. The pink 'o' tightened and creased into a petulant pout.

The support helped Count Nicholas rise above Igor's interjection. "The permanence of a crystalline winter, the glory of sunshine on winter's snow. Heat and ice, compulsion and repulsion. The studied brilliance of contrast, of elements of the agonies of difference-"

"Quite disregarding the natural and scientific logic that fire and ice cannot exist alongside one another?"

Violet bit down on a laugh. Was she one of the few who found the Count's hyperbole a trifle high-flown? The Ottoman envoy nodded along with the air of a scholar, the others hung on Nicholas's every word. Any more of such attention and the much-overlooked Count's pride may explode.

"The differences compel them together, Countess. It is a situation the poet cannot resist!"

"Nonsense. Literature is a discipline that requires self-control. Like life."

"Always the English practicality." Igor murmured, unable to resist himself.

"French, your highness." Violet retorted, her laughter cooling abruptly. "Was it not Voltaire who said that absurdities lead to atrocities?"

"What is this?"

Like a blue chiffon whirlwind, Nashtya swept into circle. Today, for the sake of propriety, she had forsaken her ever-present copy of Dickens in favour of a novelette of poems by some Russian Violet had never heard of. Translated, naturally enough for high-society St Petersburg, into French.

The change in subject and size did little to diminish Nashtya's tendencies to use her book as a weapon. "Anatoly Arkadyevich Voronov, what pranks are you up to now?"

"I protest, Aunt! Lady Grantham-"

"Ah, my dear Violette!" Leaving Colonel Voronov to the giggles of his pretty wife, Nashtya swirled about and embraced Violet. "It is going well with you? And our little plan?" She added in a soft undertone. A mock-stern look shot in Count Nicholas's direction.

"Very well." Violet whispered back. She blinked. The motion was enough to recall her to the present and the purpose for her attendance on the evening.

"Then why so many sad faces? _Mon Dieu_ , dear Suleyman-bey you are the only among us who has a smile for me."

"No one can but help to smile at your highness's appearance." With a fluttering gesture, the envoy bowed low over the tiny hand outstretched towards him.

"Ah the Byzantine manners are so wonderful." Nashtya gave a dramatic sigh. "But come, what do we discuss? Violette?"

"A clash of views, Nashtya. New worlds and old, drawing swords over poetry."

"With Igor decrying the new styles." Roza Voronov interjected. "As ever, he must come down _au contraire_ to the current mode."

"You make me so predictable, Roza."

"You and Tolik, you are all the same, you army men." Roza shrugged. "You decide and, _enfin_ , that is that."

"A relic from our death-or-glory charges." The colonel chucked his wife under the chin. "And if you are not quiet, _devka_ , we will not be able to hear Nashtya's revenge."

"Is there to be revenge?" Lidia blinked in surprise. "But how?"

"Violette, what do you recommend to punish Igoryuha in his impertinence?"

"Impertinence-?"

"I know!" Before Violet had a chance to speak, Nashtya clapped her hands once more. "A party."

"You wish to punish me with a ball?" Igor raised his eyebrows. "While it is entirely in keeping with your tastes, Nashtya, I must wonder how this is a punishment?"

"Not a ball, silly boy." The novelette of plays flashed out once more with a smack. "A literary event. A chance for you to defend your dreadful reactionist views."

"Oh yes!" Equally predictable, Lidia clasped her hands together in front of her bodice. "A party! And in that lovely _conservatoire._ It will be like summer in the midst of winter, just like Ni- like the poem."

It was hard not to miss Igor's wince. "I pray not. But if that is your wish, I will certainly speak with Irina. I do not think she has a pressing engagement."

" _Pfft._ It is your home too, is it not?" Nashtya gave an airy wave. "No matter. No matter at all. We shall all, of a certainty attend. After all," She added, with a twinkle threatening to overcome the stern expression on her face.

"We do not often see the dragon's lair, where he keeps all his secrets."


End file.
